All Hail Homo Narcissus

When a black widow spider

devours the source of her last orgasm

and the seed of her future spawn,

no cobweb carries a protest,

no spider scrawls petitions in silk,

no flickering march through candle-lit corners

chanting equity, equality,

or equinoxes —

whatever they're calling fairness these days.

When two seahorses

exchange pouches in briny lust,

and she leaves with the orgasms

while he births the babies,

no ripple holds regret,

no tide seeks therapy.

No seahorse wakes

to sweat through nightmares

of misunderstood roles

and accidental consequences.

A hundred thousand species,

on land, beneath waves, in air —

each living

without apology or revision,

without the ache to rewrite

what simply is.

And then,

there’s Homo sapiens —

a species drunk on mirrors,

obsessed with its own exception.

They sue instincts.

They argue chromosomes.

They drag nature to court,

and legislate their discomfort

with the blueprint they were built from.

They chant, they cancel,

they curate suffering into identity,

carving their grievances

into gods, genders, and guilt.

They write manifestos

against the tide,

and call it progress.

And as they debate

whether truth should be censored

or anatomy redesigned,

a flying cockroach —

nature’s ugliest survivor,

immune to all their noise —

zigzags through their symposium

and dies mid-flight,

laughing at the tragedy

of a species

too ignorant, too arrogant to accept their inconspicuity.