No guilt, only envy

The hush hush news hit me in a different way, I guess.
I am made to understand that even my self-harm has a gender.
Their deaths are carefully weighed;
ours are afterthoughts.
Their narrative of shame is heavier
than our burden of escape.
What did I expect from stories where we are mere plot devices?
Sympathy?
When the humaneness and kindness they call for only extend to people who are not like me.
People like me are the lives that pale in comparison to their reputation,
to a prolific curriculum vitae,
to much nobler causes,
to history.
People like them are the lives that go beyond their buried bodies.
People like me aren’t lives at all, just bodies.

So let me be a monster then, and spit on their kindness.
I wish I could make decisions like yours and have the same consequences.

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