On Pride

I proudly bear your fingerprints as scars on my skin. Scars of a war I didn’t know I was fighting, and couldn’t win. Your essence wrapped itself around me like a cloak, tied me in a thousand ways, with knots no one could ever undo. And yet, I wasn’t trapped, I walked freely.

Now you are sitting here, in front of me, sip by sip drinking your coffee, and I envy the way your lips touch the foam cup. I envy it to the point of wanting to rip it from your entwined fingers and throw it away into the loneliness I am sitting on. I want the cloak back on me, I want the knots to be tied again.

You sneer at me like I’m a stray animal you want to scare. I’m not a child, I know you too well. You sneer when you are uncomfortable, when someone is reading what is inside your mind. You sneer at me because you want me back, yet it is your pride that is building the wall between us, brick by brick, until I have to climb to get a peek of you down there, on the other side.

Climbing, a rope between my hands, pulling my weight upwards to get to the top. When I make it, you are casually sitting on the edge, one leg hanging, a burning cigarette in your hand. But there is no place for me on the ledge because your pride is already there, and it sneers at me, and it takes its foot to my head and pushes me down. You take the cigarette to your lips, like the coffee cup, and take a sip. Meanwhile, I’m kicked numerous times by your pride. I lose my hold on the rope and fall.

“Are you going to finish that?” You ask.

I feel the cup and learn my coffee is already cold.

You grunt. “We are finished. Get it in your head.” You sneer at me once more.

I nod, tears welling up, and watch you take off while your pride holds the door.


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