Pride is corruption; it’s the cracking of my cold skin, the coffee on my white shirt, the knots in my wild hair. Pride subverts the purity of something that was intended for good; relationships, usually. Pride reroutes the path of togetherness to somewhere rocky and bewildering until you don’t only feel lost on the road, but estranged to the passenger sitting beside you, too. Pride wrecks beautiful unions, corrupts once innocent minds and inflates one’s sense of importance to drown another’s. Pride says “my feelings are more important”, “my ways are more intelligent” and “my life is more significant” — “than yours”. Pride is the kind of ugly that at first or second look, appears to be beautiful. It’s the type of impressiveness that fades easily in the wash. Pride is the buckle in my knee that provokes a limp that I pretend isn’t there. I can walk. I’m fine. I don’t need you. I can walk.
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Peace is battle; it’s the thawing of my cold skin, the spin of my white shirt, the brush through my wild hair. Peace reinstates the purity of something that was offered up for dishonour with vigour and intent. Peace is the tangible silence that follows hysteria, echoing your panting breath as it walks around the room and slowly picks up the remains of an aftermath. Peace calls bullshit on pride, proposes a new perspective and calculates a way back to security. Peace says “your feelings are as important”, “your ways are as intelligent” and “your life is equally significant” – “as mine”. Peace is the kind of power that contests the violent shake of the upper hand and instead, replaces it with the truce of a white flag. It’s the type of angry that burns without wrongdoing with halting sentiments of enough-is-enough. Peace is the confession of a limp that I have pretended isn’t there. I can’t walk. I’m sorry. I need you. Will you come back?