Pity (Come Dance)

They pity you, don’t they?

The poor little boy from the wreckage,
come to dance.


Playing with the others so well.

You had every excuse.

We were worried.

We were worried you’d be screwed up,
Beaten down,

Broken down,
Fucked.

Good for you.

Good for you is what I bet they say.

Look! He almost blends right in!

Good for you.

No one could ever tell.

You hate that, don’t you?

Why is that?

Do you hate the pride they have because it is misplaced?

No.

Do you loathe their compliments because you feel unworthy?

No.

Is their recognition of your suffering such a crime?

Though it comes from a good place, yes.

I hate their pity because it is misplaced.

I loathe their pity because I am worthy of it, but don’t wish to be forever.

Their recognition of my suffering leads to the excuse for failure,
That! is the crime.

Do not pity me for the past.

Do not pity me for the experience.

Do not pity me for the nights,
Turn days,
Turn weeks,
Months,

Years.

Do not pity me.

Do not pity me.

Pity them.

Those burdened with the task of standing next to the poor little boy from the wreckage,
Out danced.