Tell me, son,

Does it hurt when kneeling at the altar

Of pain and torture

You created

With your own sweat and blood?

Does it hurt to keep consuming

Someone else’s flesh,

Their dreams and hope,

Their fluids,

Their menses,

Always assuming

That you’ll have access to this form

Of human,

Designed to serve you,

Designed to nurture you,

Designed to live at your feet,

Does it hurt to know

They’ll never have it better,

There’s no way out

For this poor soul,

They sign their contracts in the blood you let,

They eat your scraps,

They’re happy with your slaps,

Rather than nothing,

Rather than not being touched,

Rather than being starved,

Rather than be invisible,

They take whatever they can get from you,

And yet.

You still give them nothing.

Tell me son,

Is this how I taught you to live?

Is this how I share my wealth with you?

Do I let you shiver in the cold,

Walk barefoot through sand and rocks and wet rivers,

Do I spit on my already chewed food before I serve you?

You’re not who I thought you are,

And you say empty words of love and promises.

You’re not what I taught you to be.

I am god.

Infinitely.