Phalangist

We know you.

Back then,

Your shirt hung loose over your pants,

You never bathed,

Never shaved,

A scowl carved into your face,

An empty mind,

A clenched fist.

You came—
Bringing terror.

We spoke.

You answered with brass knuckles.

Pathetic.

We called you Phalangist.

You pulled a gun.

You killed.

You killed.

You killed.

And now—

You’ve learned to act.

You slip into new roles,

Shave clean,

Bathe often,

Dress well,

Win awards,

Smile for the cameras.

But beneath the suit,

Beneath the stage lights,

Beneath the charm—

You are still a Phalangist.

And still,

You kill.

We know you.