They told me I was broken. That what I did was evil. That I was a mistake of flesh—something to be hidden, punished, studied, forgotten.
I believed them once.
Then they handed me a rifle, a flag, and a reason. Told me to aim and pull. "For your country," they said. "For the greater good."
And when I did, they smiled. The same society that spat on me now clapped me on the back. They called me a hero for doing the very thing they locked me away for.
I have killed children. I have killed men crying for their mothers. I have killed with bare hands, with steel, with silence.
And now, I have killed for applause.
So what changed?
Not me. I was always this. Calm. Precise. Willing.
No, the difference was permission.
They gave my violence a flag. They called it righteous.
But killing is killing. Flesh does not care what banner pierces it. Blood flows the same under every ideology.
So I asked myself: If goodness is just violence with a story wrapped around it... what the hell is evil?
I found the answer somewhere between the scream of a dying man and the silence that follows.
There is no good. There is no evil. There is only sacrifice.
To eat, something dies.
To live, something must give.
Even love is a trade—give yourself to another, burn quietly for them.
The gods we made—Yahweh, Krishna, Allah, Science, Democracy—they all demand offerings. Blood, belief, obedience. Something.
So now I give them me.
Not as penance. Not as surrender.
As a question.
If you gods are real...
If you sit high on your thrones of suffering and order and law...
Then answer me:
Was I your monster... or your prophet?
Bang.