They come to you, the mayor , bearing promises of containment, protection, and security.
They dissect sacred rites with their shiny guns and sterile white coats,
swearing to the heavens that they’ve only the best intentions.
God’s retribution for sin is shot dead, and they harvest the remains.
You encouraged them.
That was your first crime.
When their requests become more demanding—
when they ask to sweep broken bodies of your people under your rug—
you do not rebuke them.
A gaping wound festers in the absence of your action.
They have promised that you will lose power and comfort if you yell.
For these are men who have caged miracles and killed God’s will.
Who are you to stand up against them?
‘No one’ you think,
a lie you tell yourself.
They pay for your silence.
So, you keep quiet.
Ignore every misdeed.
Block out the screams.
Turn your cheek to atrocity after atrocity
until you sit atop a throne of skulls,
and your silence becomes deafening
seeping into your bones,
staining your soul.
You may run,
hide,
plead,
and pray,
but there is no escape.
You try, try, and try again year after year to purge your vices,
hiding behind your fellow perpetrators.
Watch as they destroy the monstrous manifestation of your crimes.
But no blessing is powerful enough to excise memory.
No amount of running water can wash away the blood.
There is no ritual to save you from your own mind.
When the sun sets,
you will go to bed,
but sleep will not come for you.
Only visions of blood, mutilon, and devils.
Echoing screams of close ones you hurt.
The sickening smiles of those ‘well intentioned’ jailors.
And this is how it will be
for as long as you draw breath
So tell me,
Was it worth it?
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