I stole from you. You thought you’d won. I can see it in your eyes when I have the misfortune of looking upon your face. You first see me and the pride is sickening, but if I hold your gaze I’d swear I could see shame. Maybe it’s just my imagination, or maybe I just like to think that there is some good in everything even if it is hidden under a landslide of darkness. But you didn’t win. I’m not broken. I stole back the life you tried to smother. I no longer hide in the dark from the memory of you. Your fist holds nothing over me; I no longer cower at its memory. So when I saw you today you must’ve realized that I’m the thief and you are nothing.
“Dignity consists not in possessing honors, but in the consciousness that we deserve them.” -- Aristotle
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