In a world torn apart by wings —
left vs right,
woke vs washed,
progress vs propaganda —
I too believe in wing supremacy.
But not your limp metaphors,
your identity pissing contests,
or your sad little echo chambers
masquerading as revolutions.
I believe in chicken wings.
Selfless little bastards
that sacrifice themselves
without a goddamn bard
singing odes to their suffering.
Chicken wings don’t sell you fear.
They don’t say:
“Believe in me or burn forever.”
They burn themselves
so you don’t have to.
They don’t care
if you pray before eating them,
or if you say grace
with your mouth full of meat and delusion.
They don’t ask
who you voted for,
what your pronouns are,
or if you align with the ideology of the plate.
They just arrive.
Hot. Greasy. Honest.
Like truth with a side of masala.
Chicken wings don’t cancel you
if you like turkey thighs.
They don’t riot
because you dipped them in the wrong sauce.
They don’t accuse you of betrayal
for chewing slow.
Because chicken wings aren’t insecure.
They’re not screaming,
“Respect all wings or you’re wing-phobic!”
They die quietly
and taste like dignity.
Try finding that in politics.
They don’t ask to be worshipped.
They don’t need bullshit stories for advertising.
No statues. No temples.
Just your hunger.
They don’t come with holy books
full of loopholes and land disputes.
They don’t call themselves sacred
and then molest your morality.
Chicken wings never said
they were the only path to salvation.
But let’s be honest —
they’re the only damn thing that comes close.
Your gods guilt you.
Your governments gaslight you.
Your activists exhaust you.
But chicken wings?
They just ask:
“How spicy?”
Chicken wings don’t perform oppression.
They don’t cry foul
while selling you overpriced tickets to their trauma.
They don’t sell flash fiction
about how hard it is to be fried and fabulous.
They just arrive.
Crisp. Quiet. No metaphor attached.
And if you bite wrong,
they don’t sue.
They stain your shirt.
And that’s your punishment.
That’s justice.
True justice.
Tandoori justice.
I’ve read your scriptures.
I’ve heard your slogans.
I’ve seen your saviors.
None fed me.
Most bored me.
Some robbed me.
But chicken wings?
They gave.
Every time.
So no, I don’t believe in ideologies.
I believe in a bucket full of wings,
and a brief moment
where nothing else fucking matters.
Because chicken wings are everything
you wish your gods,
your politics,
and your poetry were:
Unpretentious. Unafraid. Unapologetic.
And gone too soon.
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