“No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.” ~ William Blake

You never cared and you never will care. What possessed me to think you cared, God only knows. Every time I turn my back I can feel your daggered stare slicing swiftly through my soul. Not that you even care about what you’re doing. It makes you happy, it puts a smile on your rugged face and it adds a silver glint to your coffee brown eyes. You practically printed my death certificate with the ink of your jealously. A slow, yet sleek murder from a safe distance behind your cowardice. A death not by a bullet, but much more painful. A slow death that emanates from your char black soul. Every single syllable that passes through my lips are swiftly absorbed by you and mixed with your venom then spat back in my face. You gain satisfaction from it.

Remember when we first met? You were really nice to me. I built a fort of trust and friendship in you… Then one day I realised you were only my friend because I helped you get to where you wanted to be. And you’re there now. So how does it feel to soar on the back of this winged creature? Is it fun? Does the wing run through your arrogantly oiled hair?

Now that you’ve finally reached your peak at the top of the hill I just want to warn you that this winged-creature… It’s angry… It’s hurt… It’s disappointed. And it has just decided that it doesn’t like this new being that sits on this peak because it was used all along while it thought it was only doing good for those around it. It wants justice. And if you look around – what you thought to be the apex of success is in fact the entrance to a fiery failure. The flames can’t wait to lick the flesh off your bones.

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