The quietude and meek peace of one's privacy

Listen I may volunteer 
what fits my comfort and joy 
quite thoughtlessly, but pardon 
my mistake if I gave you to think 

I had a thing to prove to you? 

Like I was trying to cred myself
into some established victim class 
for your nod of approval? 

No. Class off. 

My life's private bits
and homey accents, joys, 
wallowing anguish or other
crap such as you'd like to eat up
- that privacy's to give to who one
likes, trusts, or however much more
- not to some smug superior self-setup
judge of the everyday annual memorial
blue ribbon pity pageant parade. 

You win! I do declare
I wasn't an entrant. 
Award yourself.

Oh why not? You're the judge
anyway. Can you honestly conceive
any one showing up to show you up? 

Oh, I wasn't up for it to begin with,
trust me. I haven't the performance 
instinct. You win you really do, Who
could compete with your proud wallow
in agony, your collection of traumatic
plaques and awards, trophies lining
your mantle, you pathetic and preening 
superior wretch?

You make an actual dominance hierarchy 
out of who has been most destroyed. 

It's no shame what I've been through, 
but the way you flaunt and brag 
and outrank, overrule
sure makes it seem like
it could be so - if I could 
be so perverse a fool. 

Well thanks, to be clear, no
I was not in that race. On your mark,
Get bent

- go. 

 
I don't care what you think, when 
I wouldn't even want you to know 

me.