You can scream sanctity
until your throat mistakes itself
for history.
The fact remains:
a crime is a crime is a crime.
Justice has never learned
to cross-examine folklore.
It does not care
how beautifully
you stitched halos
onto butchered intentions.
Build your demons.
Give them a tragic childhood,
a persuasive manifesto,
a character arc
worthy of applause.
Build your gods too.
Teach them
that blood is only ideology
leaking out of the body.
Call murder self-preservation.
Call vengeance liberation.
Call terror the price of tomorrow.
Words have survived worse disguises.
Matters of facts usually outlive them.
Cry for help.
Swear the blood on your hands
belongs to history.
Insist the skeletons in your closet
were planted there
by better storytellers.
Every criminal learns vocabulary
long before they learn remorse.
There was once a boy who cried wolf.
History remembers the warning.
It forgets the ending.
It forgets to mention
that wolves do not stop
at the liar.
They acquire taste.
Monsters do not emerge from meaning.
Meaning gathers around what never needed it.
They do not learn enemies.
Only hunger.
Stories are no longer stories.
Only systems still moving
after belief has left them.
Wolves are already loose.
Fed by applause,
trained by outrage,
released in the name of justice.
Wolves have never pledged allegiance
to shepherds.
Only to hunger.
And stories have never been anyone's property;
only what survives them.
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