An expressive piece about those whiney people who think that their lives are catastrophic.
Define loss. Define your situation.
Please, whisper your putrid lies. You feel as if you have lost, you feel that your heart aches. Then why do you feel the need to exaggerate, to justify yourself? Why is important for others to fully comprehend a false sense of your misery? Will they respect you for it? Or is it sympathy you crave? The attentive state of awareness of your buried needs. Will that make you feel better? Will my ears suffice, or would you also require a nod, a hug, an unneeded reassurance? You are so blinded by your apocalyptic depression and catastrophic life that even nostalgia has turned its back on you.
Please define yourself. What colours do you hide within?
Are you blue? The jealous touch of icy fingers crush your soul with their deathly grip.
Are you red? Your hatred burns inside you and radiates heat like a furnace, waiting to devour any deceitful liars.
Do you want my honest opinion? Well, you will never get it. You will never hear a single truth in your life.
Truth lies, and even the euphemisms of an oxymoron cannot comfort you.
Shut your eyes, and block out those taunting voices. For even though they hiss and scorn, you are lucky, you are grand.
Walk down the street and gaze around you. There, at the bus stop, is a pregnant teenage girl who is abused by those seeking a night of anger and unwilling sex. The scars running down her arms and wrists are a brutal tally of how many times she has been desecrated. She takes comfort only in her female partner that has stood by her from the beginning. She is lucky, she is grand. Her father used to abuse her, and her mother turned a deaf ear to her tearful pleads. She was trapped and isolated, and now can only find a trace of comfort by subconsciously surrounding herself by those that bring back childhood memories. Yet she is great, she is fantastic.
Your tunnel vision does not enable you to see the bigger picture. She has air in her lungs. Beneath her bruised skin, she is a beautiful person. She has tasted the sweetness of romantic satisfaction. Those swollen lips have been through the tenderness of a soft kiss after a clenched fist. The life growing within her will bring her more love than she has ever encountered or hoped for.
You see her and pity the future for the baby.
I see you and laugh at your martyred anguish.
Insidious natures cannot be cured. Antonyms cannot muster anything synonymous with stoic.
Bow your head, express your shame.
But the boy who cried wolf only knows how ostentatious you can be.