A man once told me to enjoy my privilege. He said it with sarcasm dripping from his lips, and envy glowing in his eyes.
He wanted me to feel badly...to second guess the paths I've chosen, while he stews in the broth of his failures.
Such misdirected harpoons he throws as he stands at the foot of all of the bridges he's burned.
Consumed by bitterness, he does nothing to mend his broken wings so
that he too might fly with those angels he won't believe in.
Instead, he dusts off a seat next to himself in hopes that he might find
company with misery. And the man rolls his eyes at abundance before
donning a mask of duplicity.
He winks at his own reflection through
shards of his life...he thinks he's clever than most, even as the mask
hangs precariously from his face.
All who've loved him stand a distance away, wasting time hoping he'll find joy after mending his wings.
But there isn't enough time in anyone's day. Bitterness burns his eyes,
he can no longer see. And so he trips into the rubble of burned
bridges.
He swats away the hands of those angels he won't believe in, waiting to die.
And die he does.
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