Before Your Gods, I Was

I was born without a face.

That was your first mistake.

You thought monsters needed one.

The first part of me that grew was not a heart.

It was a finger. Pointing. Away.

I was born the first time 

a human being looked at the ruins

and searched for a stranger.

Before me, there was guilt.

After me, there was someone else.

I have existed longer than kingdoms.

Longer than borders.

Longer than gods.

I have worn every face you needed.

A demon when you wanted purity.

A monster when you demanded innocence.

A disease when you needed to feel healthy.

You gave me horns from your fear.

Teeth from your cruelty.

A name, because understanding was harder.

I have eaten gods.

Not because I hate them.

Because every god is a human fear wearing miracles.

I have eaten devils.

Angels.

Every excuse given a body.

They all taste the same when they are starving.

I have eaten monsters.

They were my easiest meal.

You carve them first.

Then wonder why they bite.

I have eaten evil.

You keep changing its name.

I keep tasting the same hunger.

I have tasted stars.

You blamed them too.

Every time the universe reminded you how small you were.

I do not live in darkness.

Darkness is where you bury your own.

I live in: "It was not me."

Look closely.

The fingerprints on my body are not mine.

They belong to you.

You have killed me a thousand times.

Burned me. Buried me.

Built monuments above me.

And every time you celebrate my death,

I return.

Not because I am immortal.

Because you need me.

Without me,

there is only the mirror;

no monster on the outside 

to hide what feeds inside.

No devil. No enemy.

No one left to blame.

So keep searching.

Keep pointing.

Keep asking: "Where does the monster live?"

Look at your hand.

The finger.

The mirror.

You've seen me before. 

I was never hiding.

You were looking away.

I am the oldest human prayer:

"Let it be someone else."