Who Cries for Me?

I burned someone today. A boy. He looked like me. I smoked the she-devil out of him, so he may never know of hellfire.

I cut someone today. A girl. She looked like me. I carved her up, so she may never forget that she is mere meat.

I choked someone today. A man. He looked like me. I made him swallow his own tongue over another man’s cum.

I shot someone today. A woman. She looked like me. She refused my touch; my bullets penetrated her instead.

I dismembered something today. It looked too much like me. I read a riddle between the legs and proceeded to deconstruct it. I flayed its sheath of bitter color; disarticulated it to ease consumption; picked my teeth with the coccyx; washed it down with holy water.

I killed them all today. They saw me for what I am. I stole their breath as they spoke their names, drowning them all in silence.

Can you set me free today? You, who look like me. We destroy bodies that we dare not claim as selves. We efface what we see reflected in the eyes of the Other.

I am survivor and perpetrator; the crime and the punishment. But do not call me a witness.

No one cries for the witness.

Photo credit: Christopher Campbell @ unsplash