A Study In Pride

Standard

Don’t tell me you’re proud of me,
When it’s nothing but a fucking platitude,
A balm to soothe the wounds of your words,
Or to pull out the barbs
Of your own lack of worth from my skin.

You don’t get to be proud of me,
Show me off like a trophy of your achievements,
When your dismissal’s etched into my surfaces,
Marking me forever scarred.
You are not proud of me.

You scorn anyone who’s ever praised me.
Laugh, sneer, joke like I am one,
Until I become one.
Until your song is the only one I remember the lyrics for.
I have allowed your pride in me
To hollow out this shell.
To carve this non-life I’ve believed
Is all I deserve to exist in
To be nothing but this.
What even is, this?

You are not proud of me.
The word proud has no right getting past your teeth,
And I don’t need the lashings of your tongue
To remind me of that.

But I still hear that.
Any second I let me believe in myself,
Or listen to someone that’s not you.
And I don’t want to anymore.

Because you are not proud of me.

And I don’t need you to be.

I am not you.

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