to be human, they said, was a particular thing.
a way. a life. a song to sing.
it meant a god, a skin, a law,
a single shape for the jaw.
it meant a house, a flag, a name,
a very specific kind of shame.

“human” was not a fact of birth,
but a title of the greatest worth,
bestowed on some, denied to others,
sisters, brothers, claimed not brothers.
we killed the humans, and the ones before,
who did not fit behind that door.
we called it progress, called it fate,
for every “us,” must be a “them” to hate.

this way of life, this culture, this creed,
is just a elegant way to fill a need,
to be the one who holds the knife,
who ends the debate, who takes the life,
and calls it justice, calls it right,
while standing in the stolen light.

so when you speak of “humanity,”
i see the ghost of insanity.
a scam that’s run for thousand years,
on blood and silence, on hopes and fears.
the ultimate third party, sly and grand,
that points to the body, not the hand
that holds the weapon, writes the lie,
the same cold light in every eye.

we are the post. we are the after.
the echo of the killer’s laughter.
we see the scam, we speak its name,
in every flash of that old, bloody flame.
there is no “other.” there’s only the crime,
repeating itself over and over in time.

and the only way out is to refuse to begin is
to never again let that “we” come in.