merits of martyrdom

what good is sacrifice to a nonexistent god? when nothing is gained from the losses incurred, when the damages serve no one well, sacrifice becomes sabotage. no merit exists for the self-appointed martyr, whose motives will forever be questioned.

are you doing this to be seen differently by the world, or because you want everyone else to see the world differently because of you? anna deavere smith’s question about artists rings true for anyone who does something for “the greater good.” because the sobering reality every lens shows us is that injustice and evil have a permanent residence in our world. there simply is no greater good, because as much as we are all in this together, we are in it, first and foremost, for ourselves. that for all the progress we deem laudable, there’s so much work to be done. that at the heart of altruism is and always will be a kernel of narcissism.

to diminish the significance of someone else’s beliefs in the name of sacrifice, to deny yourself and those you love in the name of a nonexistent greater good certainly guarantees that you will, indeed, be seen differently. the acts of heroism by those whose demons hold their hands at every turn are acts of cowardice. we are only as noble and as strong as our greatest flaws. any injustice done in the name of justice slanders justice’s name. and you will not sign your certificate of sacrifice with my blood. you. will. not.

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the hanging

she wears her insecurity like a body con dress, her jealousy measured by the height of her heels. both are teal, and therefore fool others into believing they are blue–the color of calm waters–in the dimly lit rooms she is known to frequent. her charisma infects the air, so her company is at ease. they share with her their thoughts, once guarded by inhibition, unaware that she is braiding those very secrets into a rope. their trust in her is the weapon she carries concealed beneath her hemline, ready to strike if ever they deign to stand taller than she.

they are too enchanted by her warmth to notice the singe as each of her words yanks the rope tighter upon their necks. little does she realize, the hem of her dress, tailored by the threads of her self loathing, shortens with each new coil in her rope. once hypnotized by her feigned selflessness, i now stand back and watch her self destruction unravel, knowing she is the seamstress of her undoing.