Men+Like+You

Sometimes you’ll open your eyes and see – and you’ll remember that things used to be different. There used to be a Son, a blazing orange bitch looming overhead as you cursed her and kicked at dirt. The giant empty canvas of blood and fire – //sky,// someone whispers – used to be full of color. Full of, of blue. Sometimes you’ll cover your ears because you’re starting to hear and you don’t want to. Because you hear whispers and screams: mantras and anger. And sometimes, sometimes you’ll hear prayers. “God, help us –” “Lord. Help us –” “Allah, deliver us –” “Father, //please// …” Please. Please. Please. Sometimes you’ll look at your hands and they’ll be red. Blood, lifejuice, something we’re running out of. And you’ll see a little girl cry and her brother dead on the ground and you will feel no pity because there’s no pity left in the world. You can only feel a tingle of shame as you break her to spare the pain. You feel shame because you know that you don’t want to do it. Sometimes you’ll look up and see the creepy fake light smoking with radiation and gloom. And you’ll curse it the way you used to curse the Son, but there is more hatred for this giant, ugly orb of heat because men like you created it and men like you destroyed what was there before. Sometimes you’ll close your eyes and dream and if you’re lucky, little shards of picture will splay out in your mind. There might be a huge pool of what looks like blood but isn’t, with shattered earth golden and warm. There might be little streaks of green twisting up, reaching for the warmth of the sky. If you’re lucky you might remember flowers. Sometimes you’ll hold your breath and wait for it to never return. But it does, it always does, because you’re not fit to die. Not like the mothers, not like the children, not like the dead birds littering the broken streets. Men like you created war. Men like you bled out the sky. Men like you don’t deserve death. Men like you deserve worse.