Victimhood is Infectious

It starts off like a niggle
In the back of your throat;
A common slight
An unsurprising snub
A minor bruise to the ego.
No biggie.
But when you stay outside
For long enough
In the cold winds of gossip
And cynicism
And low expectations of life
It will not be surprising
If that scratch in your throat
Develops into something
Persistent and ugly
And infectious.
We are not often brave
Not often given
To rising above our feelings,
So contrary to the notion
That pity parties are
Benign, private affairs,
Your celebration of victimhood
May just be the signal
Someone else needed
To plunge head first
Into their own discontent.

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