Victimhood, Inc

Imagine such void —

such an absolute blackhole

of an existence

that everything —

from your breath

to your words,

to your so-called art,

and everything in between —

begins in victimhood

and ends in suffering.

With dashes of moral superiority

sprinkled over chunks of spite —

spite aimed at an entire gender,

a gender that was once

rather functional in your being,

but now no longer serves

your trophy activism.

Where pain is currency.

Where empathy is a façade.

Where nuance is inconvenient

and complexity, a threat.

And so you flatten everything —

until trauma becomes identity,

until outrage becomes performance,

until anyone who doesn’t clap

becomes the enemy.

Because it’s easier, isn’t it?

To brand pain

than to heal from it.

To weaponize gender

than to confront your contradictions.

To speak in absolutes

so you never have to answer

the uncomfortable questions.

Because god forbid

you admit

that the war you’re selling

isn’t one you ever fought —

just one

you rehearsed well enough

to make people believe

you did.

Activism is a pretty excuse

for grown-ass adults

who refuse to act their age —

high on affordable validation

and cheap dopamine.

Victimhood, after all,

is the only narcotic

that never demands rehabilitation.