Between Two Psychopaths

If you're immoral by human standards,

you might just be innocent.

Because human morality

is the kind that lights fires

and worships the ash.

It builds shrines out of corpses,

calls it sacrifice,

and wonders why the world still bleeds.

This is a species that defines virtue

only after it's convenient —

never before.

It writes its commandments in blood,

then edits them in peace treaties.

It eats life,

calls it culture.

It erases life,

calls it progress.

It sells life,

calls it order.

And when something fights back,

they call it danger.

You tear open a forest

to feel powerful.

A creature bites back —

and suddenly you're a martyr.

You call it instinct

when you kill.

Call it madness

when anything else dares.

You invented language

not to connect —

but to manipulate.

You built morality

not to live by —

but to rule with.

Your ethics are just walls

with prettier names.

Your justice is just revenge

made ceremonial.

And your memory?

It forgets what doesn’t flatter.

You name wolves evil

to make yourself the shepherd.

You name serpents vile

so you never question your trespass.

You praise peace

only when silence serves you.

You say killing is wrong,

but worship warriors.

You say lies are sin,

but crown liars with garlands.

You say humility is sacred—

but only expect it

from the broken.

You want morality

that doesn't challenge you.

You want mercy

you wouldn’t extend.

You want to be god —

but never questioned like one.

You name instinct uncivilized,

but coat your bloodlust

in legislation and ceremony.

You call yourself human

like it’s proof of something.

And then —

you cage the psychopath.

Not because they are unnatural.

But because they are too natural.

Because they do what you do

without apology,

without scripture,

without a flag.

You jail the psychopath

because they hold up a mirror

that doesn’t flatter.

Because their hunger isn’t holy,

and their violence isn’t branded.

You call them monsters

for being what you buried.

Not outside you —

but inside.

Psychopathy, to you,

is only evil when it’s not yours.

When it's unlicensed.

When it doesn't serve your scripts.

Your species is terrified

of the version of itself

that doesn't lie about its teeth.

So every time a human

calls another immoral,

I pause.

Because between two psychopaths,

I choose the one

who doesn’t dress their hunger

as holiness.

I choose the one

who doesn't pretend

their teeth are philosophy.

Between the claw and the crown,

give me the one

that bites honestly.

Because when morality

is just a throne

built from bones you refuse to count —

then justice is just the last psychopath

who lived long enough

to call themselves right.