Lay Down the Gavel Tonight

The room is quiet now, but your mind is replaying the tape on a loop. You hear the exact sharpness in your voice, the tone that cut deeper than you intended, and you cringe as if the moment is happening again.

You are building a courtroom in the dark and appointing yourself the judge, the jury, and the accused. But the light does not need your verdict to know what happened.

It saw the anger, yes, but it also saw the wound underneath that made you lash out. It knows the whole story, not just the single sentence you regret.

You cannot go back and unsay the words, but you do not have to stay in the cell you built for yourself tonight. The door is not locked from the outside.

Lay down the gavel. The trial is over.