Burying a Statue of Myself

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Pride is the double-edged sword that I continue to stab myself with.
Courage is the ball that I can’t seem to keep rolling.

I remember when I met you on the first day of high school,
Your vibrant red hair and laissez-faire attitude left me speechless.
Every day seemed to be better with you there.
A dose of you for even just five minutes was enough to leave me happier.
As time went on we grew closer, and each second flew by like an air force pilot at Mach 2.
Eventually, you left those four brick walls under which I considered our home,
but I was ok. I knew you would not leave me, or so I thought.
Day after day I waited for a response that I would never come, or only come sporadically,
or would only leave me wanting to talk more but there was never enough time I guess.
You trusted me with your new identity before anyone else, but then you took it back.
There has been a hole in my heart ever since, but I respect that you do not want to be
the one to fill it. Being a friend is a responsibility. It is scary.
To hold the weight of that much trust in someone’s hand only to fear dropping and breaking it.

And so here is where I bury the statue of myself that I have erected.
I put my pride on display for everyone to see because I thought it could never be broken.
It turns out I was wrong.


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