By: Anna Molinari
Crows. Birds that feast on the flesh of the dead and decaying will not eat their own, but as we're on our knees praying, saying our "Hail Mary's" and "Our Father's", we're laying our hopes in the straying of others. Feasting on the flesh of our brothers, our sisters, our kin. Delighting in their sins, taking joy in their pain. But we perpetuate the game, whispering in dark rooms as that spirit looms growing ever stronger, ever longer, bigger and more elaborate than before. We point fingers at the whore, begging for more, gleefully basking in the gore of the children of God. We've become our own gods, giving judgement, casting lots over the transgression of the sinner. Our skin grows thinner yet and heaven forbid someone wag their finger at me 'cause Lord knows I'm holier than thou, a self righteous cow--chewing the cud of God's word over and over in my mouth, taking forever to digest it. Or spit it out. I don't doubt my salvation, only yours. Don't break my concentration. I'm on the straight and narrow here and can't help but sneer as you fall behind, falling deeper into that black pit. It'll only be a bit longer now until you're dead for good as I murder you with my words, quenching my thirst for blood. But don't worry, before you die, I'll make sure I pick away at you first, because humans aren't crows. We eat our own.
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