He doesn’t show up for the fall. He waits. Files it.
Keeps a ledger of your scraped knees,
your I’m sorry said to empty rooms,
the nights you counted pennies and called it wealth.
He lets you bleed.
Lets the dirt write your name in lowercase.
That’s memo page one. Let them be small. Let them learn.
Page two. Then you rise.
Land the job. The name on the door.
The room quiets when you speak.
Your shadow grows teeth.
You start believing your own press.
That’s when the envelope slides under the door.
He doesn’t kick you when you’re down. That’s inefficient.
He waits for the crown to sit crooked,
for the mirror to say king back.
For pride to unbutton its collar.
Then he hops on—
not with pitchforks, but with applause.
With you deserve this whispered by every mouth.
With a thousand yes-men building your tower
one inch taller than grace.
The devil got the memo:
The humble are too heavy to carry.
But the proud?
The proud already packed their own bags.