Filth is an interesting word.
The ones averse to it
lay it across streets
and across the skeletons of the demons they hide within,
and we call them civilized.
The ones born into it,
because cleaning up is their inheritance,
cannot afford filth
inside or out,
and yet we call them uncouth.
Imagine a world
where the uncouth graduated in civilization;
the civilized would drown
in clogged commodes and swarming sewage,
hands soft, conscience corroded,
lungs choking on the rot they refuse to touch.
Filth is not just a word.
It is the taste of privilege,
bitter and slick on your tongue.
It is the marrow of shame,
gnawed at and hollowed,
every bite leaving a scar deeper than humanity.
It is a life sentence,
etched into the cracks of streets,
stamped on the foreheads of the living,
pulsing in their veins like a sin they cannot wash away.
And yet, we call this civilization.
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