The toxic roils off you in waves.
Concrete heat, or
Wax factory drippings.
A grease housecoat that smells faintly of jealousy.
Of anger.
Of loathing.
Keep it at arm's length, a ten-foot pole or a thirty-foot drop.
Drop you like a hat, be careful and don't slip.
It's oily here. The kind you can't wash off.
Or don't.
A sidelong glance, tilted chin or narrowed eye
Reminds me to trust my own judgement better
And trust you less.
I may not be right, but I am not a tower to be toppled
No false idol
No conspiracy here.
Simply all of us doing our very best with what we have
And if that doesn't meet your standard of quality, and if I don't understand how your abrasiveness gets you ahead of me somehow,
Then I suppose I will go my way, and you yours, and we'll let the evidence speak for itself.