You can know that your life is worthless, except as a vessel for politics and extraction. Seeing how true that is never gets easier.

I *know*, deeply, that I am only of use to this nation as a slave or a justification. I get it. I know the impulse is always there, not even below the surface — only clothed or unclothed. Still. Seeing it. Jesus.

When I think of how hard I work to create a home as fortress and buttress, for my sanity and weathering. And to know they killed that woman as she slept in her own home. Executed her and stepped over her as she died. And they will pay a late fee and live the rest of their lives.

Slept in her own home.

I work so hard. They killed her in her own home.

I hope their every breath burns their lungs, their desire never again explodes in their gut, no food satiates and no power calms. I do not care about rehabilitation of them and that’s my weakness. I hope they walk dead, alive, the rest of their lives.

And so, no, we are not friends. How can we be when only one of us is human?