Floorward Pride

Just looking at the floor… Just looking at the floor… You called it pride like I walked away for heat, for ego, for some sharp little victory. But I was looking at the floor giving out under my feet. You said there was cash to pocket, like the line was steady, like the work was done, like the end was something you could point to. But the pages kept moving, the pieces kept missing, the shape kept changing every time I tried to hold it. I was hired for one thing and became the beam, the braces, the hands in the walls, the last light on when the house wouldn’t hold. And when they moved the money to the far side of a broken bridge, you called me faithless for not crossing. I know you were hurt. I know it landed hard. But friendship is not my family going hungry so you can call me loyal. Friendship is not me carrying the risk and you carrying the story. Carrying the risk… Carrying the story… Carrying the risk… Carrying the story… So no, I did not leave for pride. I left because the bag was already in my hands, already tearing, already heavier than it had any right to be. And I could feel my whole life slipping through the bottom. You wanted a true friend. I wanted a floor. You wanted one more push. I wanted to keep the house standing. You wanted the banner high. I wanted my family fed. And somehow that made me the traitor. I know you were hurt. I know it landed hard. But friendship is not my family going hungry so you can call me loyal. Friendship is not me carrying the risk and you carrying the story. No, I did not leave for pride. No, I did not leave for pride. If you want the truth, here it is plain: I did not abandon you. I stopped abandoning myself. I stopped abandoning myself. I stopped abandoning myself. Just looking at the floor…