Every once in a while, the world finds newer phrases to fall in love with
And then like toxic lovers abuse the shit out of it until it finds fresher distractions to move on to
The world today teaches the world to identify genders and sexualities as fluid concepts
While selling the very idea of nuances to binaries, the very idea of respectfully disagreeing to a raging hate economy: if you can't love it, you have to hate it
Imagine a world that psychotic finds a phrase it can fall in love
Apparently that word these days is “selective outrage”
What an outrageous idiocy
Like outrage was ever supposed to be democratic
It is rhetorical because outrage is always selective.
If it weren’t, it wouldn’t be outrage —
It’d be cynicism, or nihilism, or realism,
Wearing the rotting skin of a misanthrope
When you outrage, you pretend to be better than the rest
While perpetrating selective outrage yourself, like shame wasn't even a thing
You curate your morality like writers twist their words
But the misanthrope me, I know better
I know we’re all just compost in waiting —
organic waste with delusions of purpose,
rotting toward irrelevance
You see what I did there
Got you in the intricate details so you miss the point
The point that my undying need to be better than you is at war with your unquenched thirst to be better than the rest
Thereby proving, we are all fucking garbage
And it just proves my point all over again; it was my jigsaw you thought was yours
But then I'm a writer, I twist words by second nature
You on the other hand, my dear narcissistic acquaintance, walked into the bait, eyes wide open
The pride to salvage your sinking ego too blinding for you to notice the devil in the details
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