S@#$%R

Beautiful scars on the back of my hand spell out everything I’ve left behind as I watch you saunter before me and I walk the line you leave, strewn with thorns and blistered feet. But always, I chicken out and go back to the well worn dusty face in a crowd path that the world has stripped of its dignity.

I’ve turned away from you, often, but not intentionally.

More so because I hate seeing a constant mirror of myself when I’ve always thought me to be ugly.
Beautiful scars maybe, but ugly.

And as I smirk at the way you’ve started walking on air, dreaming in the world you created while reality batters at your window in all its cruelty,
I realize, that I envy you.

I envy your ability to fight for what you don’t want.

I watch them, the Others, and I hear what they have to say.
And the line between what they expect of me and what I expect of myself has become so blurred that by the time I grasp that I’m playing for their team, it’s too late.

I’m in.

But you?

You’re sitting in the stands and pointing and laughing.

I envy you.

Even though, I know, I’m the one with the trophy.