Maps, Missiles, Men & Masturbating Gods

You’d think a species that survived plagues and pandemics, and would evolve into something remotely decent

But no

We grew opposable thumbs

Just to reload rifles faster

We discovered fire

So we could set newborns ablaze with phosphorus bombs

Because their parents prayed in a different direction, a direction your landlords didn't approve of

We wrote books

Hundreds of thousands of pages across centuries

So we could fight over whose pages had the right fonts and whose had God's blood all over

Look at Gaza

Look closely

That is not rubble

That is bone-dust mixed with powdered nationalism

That isn’t resistance or retaliation

That’s a war crime with better PR

Children turned to statistics

Mothers turned into target practice

Fathers turned into shadows

Carrying sacks of limbs instead of groceries

Borders were lines once you know

Sketched by trembling colonial fingers on caffeine and cocaine,

The same fingers that looted generations of wealth and spices, and yet could never figure out how to handle either

And now?

Now, they are holy scripture; sanctified, unquestionable

So much so, we don't blink twice before tearing apart flesh from bones, over them

Because imaginary lines drawn on paper maps

Hold more value than actual lives

Because God apparently owns real estate

And believes in ethnic cleansing

As long as it aligns with your flag’s colour palette

They say this is about politics

Geopolitics

Religious extremism

Terrorism

But the truth is simpler

It’s about dicks

It’s always been about dicks

This is just another limp dick-measuring contest

Between leaders with erectile egos

And shriveled humanity

Millions dead, but at least someone gets to call it a victory

Like winning a pissing match by drowning the other guy’s family

And what about the rest of us?

We hashtag

We repost

We call it awareness

As if views and likes are oxygen to lungs, caved in under concrete

As if comments and reposts can rebuild homes bulldozed by faith

They say God is watching.

Maybe he is, with popcorn resting on his potbelly full of wine, some tissues, some lotion, for his daily dose of humiliation porn

Or maybe, just maybe

He’s as imaginary as the lines we murder each other for

Maybe, there’s no God in this

Just men, angry men, petty men, power-drunk men

Hiding behind scriptures like perverts in a trench coat.

And behind them, some more men.

Clapping. Nodding. Calling it sacrifice. Calling it just.

This isn’t about who fired first

This is about why the fuck are we still building missiles instead of Colloseums for our collective shame

This is about how we turned evolution into a suicide pact

Signed in blood, stamped with flags, and notarized by apathy.

The only thing we’ve truly mastered as a species is

Dying for the wrong things while living for absolutely nothing