You

A while ago, I wrote a story. It was a short one, just 17 years long, about a spoilt, ungrateful brat of a girl who didn’t love her life despite all the beauty and gifts presented at her feet. Instead she walked over them, crushing the lives and efforts of “loved” ones around her.

And the story was a biography, but only now do I see that it is not I who plays the leading role, but it is you, girl, who will surely win the award for best actress with no one left to thank but yourself.

Orphans in Africa will not cry for you. Slaves in China will not pray for you. Prisoners in Peru will not fight for you. Neither will I.

Never claim that nobody loves you, for you wouldn’t be here today if they didn’t. Never moan that you never get what you want, because you only so much as bat a single tear from your eyes and you have sheep flocking to your every want.

And yet I find myself torn between extremes of emotions. I have felt your pain, and the guilt still stings me when I think of how high you once stood in my heart and my life. I have felt the same desperation for the reassurance and affection you now crave. Now, I find myself judging you of your wrongs and preaching others against you.

But who am I to do such a thing? As I find myself in a position of power that is not mine to claim, I know that, surely, my soul has faded like yours over time, and I exist with you in a state of melancholy and doubt.

So why do I have the urge to fight with you when we are on the same side? Do I close your eyes and slit your wrists for you, or kiss your hand, knowing you are my own somewhat-distorted reflection?