If forgiveness is the greatest gift you can give
you clearly haven't earned enough.
I've never needed it,
now or ever,
apart or together,
hell, the only thing I wish for more than the obvious
is slightly better weather.

You might think you're a benevolent god
but the moment she leaves you'll realize
you're one of them:  the lowest of the low,
delivering the lowest of the blows.

I once lost my fortress in the sky
to a giant who moved in
and hoarded all of his gold,
all the shiny and delicious things
he could find, taken as his own.
And if anyone tried to take it back,
he'd swallow them whole.

He loved suffering, so he'd
watch them chew themselves for him.

And you know what I did?
I didn't forgive him.
I loved him instead.
I don't think my forgiveness
is a priceless gift.
If an ant forgave you for crushing it,
would you care any more or less?
Love carries much more weight,
just like giants, and ants, do.

So when the torch you carry forgets to stay lit,
you should've gotten a smartphone instead.
Save your forgiveness for the ants.
I'd rather have the gold.