Arrogance

Do the arrogant weep over the shards of themselves?

Do they cradle the brittle, fragile pieces of their reflection

And carve their failures into their flesh to remember?

It seems like they would slide beyond reproach,

Into the hazy ether of impossible standards and hubris.

.

But I cradle the broken pieces of myself.

I tuck them under my pillow and sprinkle shards of glass

Across the floor in the backseat of my car because

Sleeping inside, on a nice warm bed, would be too much

Of a disturbance for the world and its selfless to bear.

.

Is this what the arrogant do then?

Do they prostrate themselves with the nightmare of failure?

Or do they laugh effortlessly and spit in the face of the afraid?

Should I mark myself among their numbers or would the brand

Burned into my chest simply speak a different tale?