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And you say to me that you are a martyr.That you are someone who has tried so hard for a cause so lost and distant and decaying that it can barely stand on its legs without the aide of its victims. That you are someone who has suffered and cried and trembled while supporting the very last ceiling beam of your beliefs on the raw bone of your shoulderblades. That you are someone who has bled and groaned and died fo--
That you are someone wh--
And then I told you that I was your savior.
That I was the almighty who has come to take you from your everlasting darkness and into the burning light of day. That I was the Daedalus who would craft you wings of dirty feathers and cheap wax tied loosely around yor waist by rough twine so you could escape the hell of your exile. That I was the one and only truth that would shed brilliance over your sleepy and nig--
That I was th--
And you laughed at me and called me a fraud; a quack; a pretentious little lady with nothing better to do.
And I smiled.
I smiled because it was true.
Because I was not the one to save you from the devils that lived cradled within the labyrinths of your head. Because I was not the one to forgive you of your broken and bleeding sins that sloshed heavily through the ateries and veins of your heart. Because I was not the one to bring you into the bright and cal--
Because I was not the one t--
And it was better that way.
Because instead of saving you from the vomit-reeking gutters and puddles of the dark alleys, I would have brought you into a blindingly brilliant and searingly hot desert, stranded from all hope and dreams. Because instead of freeing you with a pair of heaven-white wings, I would have made you my Ikaros and have you fly so high that the waxen glue between the sullied feathers would melt and drown you in the sea. Because instead of lightening y--
Because instead o--
But then I also smile, because why should I believe you to be a martyr if you should not believe me to be a savior when I gloat and brag and flaunt just as much as you? And why should I believe you to be holy and altruistic and pure when you sneer and smirk and judge just as I do. And why should I believe you to be pitiable when your eyes tell me that you are one to pity others? And why should I believe you to be a tr--
And why shou--
Because your suffering is the product of your own lust and sin and sickness that grows within you behind some clumsily flung Persian carpet. Because your blood is the outcome of you clumsily biting your own tongue so hard that it pours warm and gleeful and sparkling pain over your neck and shirt, which you wear with twisted pride and passion. Because your martyrdom is cheap and marketed and sold in the discount book pile at the center of Barnes and Nobles. Because your l--
Because yo--
And I just have one thing to say to you, my Ikaros.
Do not claim to be a martyr when your eyes have yet to close in death.
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