Dear Pride

There you are again,
Telling me I'm not good enough.
If only I'd tried a little harder, a little sooner—
If only life were more fair—
If only I'd made one choice differently—

Then all would be well.

You whisper that everyone is disappointed in me,
Especially the ones whose opinions I value most.
You roar that God isn't fair,
That I did everything right and still didn't get the reward.
You accuse, in the very next breath, that I've done everything wrong,
That I'm simply not good enough to deserve those dreams.

You point out the smiling young mother.
You imply, as if it's obvious, that God loves her more than He loves me.
You twist another's happiness, wringing out bitter tears.

You have been called "the thief of joy."
I've learned that Comparison is only one of your pseudonyms.
Beneath that cloak of false humility, your dark heart corrupts mine.

You've crowned me queen of my own thoughts,
Center of my own universe,
Cause and effect of all good and bad.
In doing so you plunge me into despair.
After all, you always precede some form of fall.

There is only One who can silence your whisper, your roar.
I desperately need Him now.