We may as well wear it on a sign, over our heads or hanging around our necks.
We're those kind of people, and anyone will always know it to look at us. You love us more for it. Easy and disposable and safe. We can be your martyrs or your muses. But we won't be around long enough to be you.
You wonder sometimes whose idea it was. Some god over some rainbow found a box of firecrackers buried in a thousand year old shed.
In her benevolent decadence, she lights them one by one and tosses them into
our cinderblock masoleums. We love them and we watch them sputter out. And we go to their funerals always in the same suit and dress. We play their favorite MTV songs.
We talk about their pure hearts, because there is no one here about to change the world.
You're right, really,
the best thing to do is pity us. But always from a distance. Always "it's sad that had to happen," but never "
it's sad that happens every day." We're much
better with our fuses spent and our undisguised jealousy forever locked safe behind milky eyes.