Those Who Aren’t

Ssssome people call us drunkards.

Some, martyrs.

Other names c‑cannot even be said by our lips.

All the other foot soldiers drink their own as well.

So why’s it gotta be diff’rent for us?

Our poison warms us. Runs through our veins as it kills us slowly. Armor isn’t needed when we know we’re gonna be good as dead in a blink. It’s too warm, anyways.

They make fun of us for how we… we were born. Our bodies don’t like this crap, does they? Nah. But yet, we must drink. We’re all gonna be moribund onna these moons.

Ey, don’t cry, hun. You’ll be hiccup just fine.

Fine with the rest of us.

Now drink up.