Pride and You

Pride
is a beautiful blade
until it starts turning
in your hand.

I have seen it
sit in a man’s mouth
for days

polished
silent
starving.

You wear yours
like a clean shirt.

Buttoned high.
No blood showing.

But I know.

I know the climate
inside a closed room.

I know the sound
of a door
pretending
it was never opened.

And you

you keep standing there
with the whole river in you

acting thirsty.

A man can build a bridge over a river
and still drown in a sentence.

That is the tragedy.

Not that you feel nothing.

That would be easier.

It is that you feel
and still choose
the museum of yourself.

Everything behind glass.

Your hands.
Your fear.
Your almost.

Even your tenderness
walks in late

wearing someone else’s coat.

And me?

I am tired
of being the fire
that makes a coward
feel warm.

I am tired
of being the mirror
a man visits
only when he wants
to remember
he is alive.

Pride in me
has no throne.

It is not made
of stop
or silence.

It is a woman
standing barefoot
in the middle
of her own storm

saying

I loved you.

Then saying

and still.

Still
I will not live
inside the small room
your fear prepared for me.

Still
I will not make
a religion
out of waiting.

Still
I will not confuse
your closed mouth
for depth.

You may keep
the key.

I was never
waiting
to be opened.