It’s the pity that drains me.
Somehow it overtakes the reality,
that you’re still breathing,
still functioning,
yet they dumb down their speech,
their interaction with you,
offering you a dispensation,
kindness by default,
talking to you,
like you’re not sophisticated enough,
not acute enough,
not alive enough,
not human enough.
The empathy they afford,
is loaded with white fragility,
with hyper sensitivity,
wrought with disclaimers,
anchored with fine print,
that they wallow in a bath of victim-hood,
because entitlement keeps their noses,
pointed up if only figuratively,
and they assume,
you’re in need,
of their constructed lulling,
their entitled guilt,
and sinister faces.
Thank you for your fake smile,
your agenda creased corner of your eyes,
your aged skin,
over half a century old,
over half a century dead,
and still not a human,
still barely a person.
Imagine,
being kind,
not out of pity,
but because it is your very essence.
W.E.
lonerloaner 