The boy was the raw material;
the man he became is industrial waste.
Now he stands over the basin,
sleeves rolled to the elbows with brutal intent,
like that of an architect
of a premeditated erasure.
The man does not hate that boy.
For even hate requires a pulsing heart.
He finds the boy’s sadness to be a catastrophic noise
for a man built for absolute precision.
One hand on his nape,
the other pinning the wrists,
those hands that once held hotwheels,
scribbled beautiful myths,
now serve the executioner.
He shoves the boy into the porcelain,
forcing the halcyon days into the drain.
The boy thrashes,
in a frantic rhythm,
for he was the one who published at nineteen,
the one who survived indifferent parents,
the one who earned the very air
the man now denies him.
He watches the bubbles rise:
cheap thrills,
mischievous laugh,
pixelated memory,
and waits for the water to go still.
There's no shame in the basement
for killing an innocent.
Only the efficiency of a scavenger,
serving as the grim reaper.
He watches the boy’s light extinguished,
then begins harvesting:
his speed, for the research;
ambition, for an h-index;
trauma, for the conviction;
evolution, for his extinction.
He became a parasite
who enjoys the host's inheritance,
by denying him subsistence.
He is a national hero
built from the corpse of a kid
he deemed nonsense.
Now the boy is dead,
but he was the only one who knew
why the tea was brewed.
The man is just a machine
left behind to sip his essence.
The crime is perfect,
state, coherent!
The victim is gone,
for he has performed his own execution.
The sink is empty now.
But his hands are wet with the only thing
that ever made him a real human being..
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 8:12 AM UTC
The boy was the raw material;
the man he became is industrial waste.
Now he stands over the basin,
sleeves rolled to the elbows with brutal intent,
like that of an architect
of a premeditated erasure.
The man does not hate that boy.
For even hate requires a pulsing heart.
He finds the boy’s sadness to be a catastrophic noise
for a man built for absolute precision.
One hand on his nape,
the other pinning the wrists,
those hands that once held hotwheels,
scribbled beautiful myths,
now serve the executioner.
He shoves the boy into the porcelain,
forcing the halcyon days into the drain.
The boy thrashes,
in a frantic rhythm,
for he was the one who published at nineteen,
the one who survived indifferent parents,
the one who earned the very air
the man now denies him.
He watches the bubbles rise:
cheap thrills,
mischievous laugh,
pixelated memory,
and waits for the water to go still.
There's no shame in the basement
for killing an innocent.
Only the efficiency of a scavenger,
serving as the grim reaper.
He watches the boy’s light extinguished,
then begins harvesting:
his speed, for the research;
ambition, for an h-index;
trauma, for the conviction;
evolution, for his extinction.
He became a parasite
who enjoys the host's inheritance,
by denying him subsistence.
He is a national hero
built from the corpse of a kid
he deemed nonsense.
Now the boy is dead,
but he was the only one who knew
why the tea was brewed.
The man is just a machine
left behind to sip his essence.
The crime is perfect,
state, coherent!
The victim is gone,
for he has performed his own execution.
The sink is empty now.
But his hands are wet with the only thing
that ever made him a real human being..
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