Pride

Pride is one of those things that’ll keep me from telling you how much you mean to me because I don’t want you to know that I’m utterly obsessed with you. Not like sexually (at least not entirely), but like in an “I just want you to be happy always” kind of way.

Pride is one of those things that will keep me from telling you how much I miss you when I’m not here because making someone feel important hasn’t been my forte before, and it certainly wasn’t a part of the household.

Pride is one of those things that keeps me from being dependent on anything you could put in my life. I’d be okay with you, and I’d be damn sure to do everything in my power to be even better without you.

I’m disappointed that I’ve come to this point, but I’m happy I can write to describe just how fucking prideful I could be. It’s ironic, though, right? I’m not proud of the amount of pride I have.

Pride has ruined moments for me that would have been great. I could have apologized at the appropriate time. I could have avoided conversations that suck (not that I dislike those types of conversations, bring them on), but it’s not helped.

It’s always been my belief that everyone who’s supposed to be in my life will be there, but I’ve avoided the most critical piece, which is that I have to be the one to also put in work because or else what do we end up within the long run? Not much.

Also, battling with someone just as prideful? Not a fun time.