High Road

You insisted that I take the high road. So I apologized for speaking my mind. (A mind is a terrible thing to lose.) All the world loves the welcome mat: The thing that lets you know that you have entered a haven from all that can hurt you. I invited the vampire inside per your instructions, held the door wide open so that it was free to enter through the threshold, walking all over the doormat in the process, to sink it's teeth into my neck, the one I stuck out for you, and it bit down hard and drained me of any life I had, and it fed on my weakness until I failed to exist anymore. That high road I took was a road I'd traveled often: so well worn that I could have traversed it as a sleepwalker, (would that I actually got a good night's sleep once in a while). It was, however, a road less traveled by you. The hypocrisy of your marching orders rings through me now, like a siren screaming its arrival. Attend to me! Get out of my way! No one stands in the way of your progress as regress. You inch yourself forward, indicating all the way that every step you take or have ever taken is a giant leap worthy of several camera angles. The flash bulbs blind, and I wonder: If the road was so high, why do I feel so low?