The Song of a Cicada

I'm sitting against the wall, imagining myself alone as those loud, imposing footsteps echo in a loop before me; that's how the story ended.
It started out thinking you were already loud and mean.
Jealousy of your charisma and your words seized me straight away.
Coat, hair and boots, all long and black. Simple, but standing out.
I could feel your presence growing darker when suddenly, one day, I saw flowers growing on your hand. Only visible to me.
You were getting darker and darker but it was too late, my guilt was growing with it.
And I was alone with these feelings of horrible jealousy and shame.
I had hope right to the end, though.
Even until the last few days, when I finally understood who you really were.
It was no longer a room, it was a garden in the countryside; there was only the song of a cicada.
Cicadas sing in groups, but you were the loudest cicada.
Oh, you sure know how to be loud.
Getting noticed.
Putting yourself in the wrong place.
We were all preparing to leave. I thought it was finally time to forget you for good.
But after all this time, you've become my mirror.
You changed my words.
You changed my style.
You changed my look.
... You've changed me entirely.
The story ended recently and I still see you everywhere: within other people, at night and inside me.
Today, I listened to a phrase I wish I'd heard back then;
"The smartest people aren't always the ones who talk the best."
Because after these years of discovery, I'm not destined to be a cicada.
I'm a cockroach, and proud of it!