I held my ground in that heated spat

I held my ground in that heated spat,

a battle over coffee, so absurd.

Fingers white-knuckled on a cracked mug,

the taste of victory tasted blurred.

Shouting feels like winning, they say,

but in the silence that follows, I see—

it's a hollow throne, this ragged fray,

where pride stands tall, yet we both bleed.