I voted today.
But it felt—
no, it cut—
like lending ammo
to my own shooting.
No rush of pride,
no fire in the chest.
Just the slow, cold crawl
of wrongness,
slick and quiet,
coiling in the gut.
Uneasy.
Like standing on ground
tilled by hands that never rested,
soil packed by footsteps
that marched without choice.
I was casting ballots
for those who cast us down.
There is something alarming about that.
The weight of history—
not loud, not obvious,
but humming beneath the skin,
an echo of broken promises
etched into the marrow.
It does not shout.
It settles.
Deep.
Heavy.
Unspoken.
But it bleeds.
It seeps.
Thin, dark veins of unease
spilling through cracks
older than memory,
older than the hope they sold us.
I voted today.
Handed them the bullet—
polished, ready,
a quiet betrayal wrapped
in the illusion of choice.
And they smiled.
Oh, they smiled.
Teeth like history's blade,
gleaming with the comfort
of knowing how the cycle spins.
They loaded the chamber,
aimed steady,
and told me it was freedom.
