Superlative self

I don't hate you,
I don't envy you.
I know you worked for that, sweat for that, bled for that.
Burnt your lungs and dropped the contents of your stomach on the floor, countless times before.

The reflux hiccup leaves you crouching, but somehow you pick-up yourself from the floor...to go at it once more.

But I just can't look at you right now.
Selfish as it seems, it only reminds me of the gulf between you and me.
The superlative self I'll never be.

At least I see why you do it.
I'm not blind to the bare-faced honesty of your exhaustion.
When pretence can barely raise a smile, let alone a finger.
Win or lose - it's less confusing than the pantomime we're all forced to act.
Pleasant smiles painted on masks balanced precariously on grimaced cheekbones.
Mine dropped to my balls a long time ago.
A mocking crotch grinning up at me.

It's hard to find conceit at 3am when you're staring at the ceiling drenched in your skin.

They're one step closer to the superlative self.

I'm one step further back staring blankly on the shelf.