Tell me—
I heard your speech on homophobia,
listened to the daft opinions you threw like stones,
the way you called it a curse, a sin,
how you’d rather a dead child than a gay one.

Tell me—
can a rapist be homophobic?
I want to know how you moved so quickly
from predator to preacher,
from devourer to denouncer.
Oh! But maybe amnesia is your gift—
perhaps I should remind you:

That night,
a boy, barely a whisper,
came to you out of duty, not desire.
You tore through him like a warpath,
left his body a battlefield,
blood marking the mouth of your ammunition.
His voice, no louder than a prayer—
“Senior, senior, please!”—
but to you, his plea was pleasure.
You continued.
You conquered.
You left him there.

No witness. No trial.
No master to punish you,
no camera to capture your sins.
But justice would have been too kind—
perhaps death, too, would fail to suffice.

And yet,
that boy is grateful.
Not for you,
but for the truth he found despite you.
He is whole in his queerness,
undaunted by your shadow.

You did not make me.
Your trauma had no victory.
But tell me—
after all these years, do you not tremble?
Do my words not haunt you?
If not these lines, then let your conscience be your noose.

You are a killer.
And you deserve no absolution..