Well, I’m not good like you
I wasn’t at the frontline when you drew first blood,
wasting my time on plotting survival
so trivial
clinging to the rooftop in a scarlet flood
that hungers for my early death
And you scoff at the silver crown I earned
for every bridge I’ve crossed unburned
for being wise and being learned
I’m built like my mother
small and fragile like the hand grenades
that you romanticize when you dream
of a resistance you will never see
of a sacrifice you will never pay.
My blood runs orange with the flames of war
where poison rained upon my shore
and birthed the rage of three million ghosts
but you still swear you know better
— after all, you’ve read my uncle’s letters —
and of course you didn’t come to boast.
That’s why you praise yourself in every post.
I’d give my life to save my neighbor
But I won’t beg for your good favor
Who crowned you our holy savior?
