Meat for the World
By S.N.V.
I am the ash at the end of a scream,
a man-shaped wound,
gutted and left in the corner
like forgotten carrion—
unclaimed, unholy,
unsaved.
The sky does not look for me.
It spits rain on my cracked skin
like a dog pissing on what’s already dead.
This world—
it doesn’t just forget you.
It grinds you.
Bone into powder.
Hope into rot.
It grins as you swallow your screams
because noise is weakness
and weakness is prey.
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Look at me.
Really look.
These hands once held a mother’s love,
a child’s warmth,
a future.
Now they hang,
useless meat from a rusted hook.
Fingers twitch, not from life,
but from memory
of what it meant to matter.
Every night I die a little.
In the hunger.
In the cold.
In the way people look through me
like I’m already gone.
I sleep in alleys
where rats have names and more warmth than me.
I dream in black and rust—
no color, no light.
Only the echo of my own blood
beating against the silence.
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God left this place long ago.
Or maybe He was never here.
Maybe He made me
and laughed
as the wolves tore me into inches.
Maybe He watches now—
through cracked mirrors and broken windows,
chewing popcorn
while the world peels my soul like bark.
I am not asking for mercy.
I just want the pain to have meaning.
I want the shadows to see me.
I want the boots that crushed my spine
to remember the shape of what they ruined.
But they won’t.
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Because the world eats you
and when it’s done,
it shits you out
and grinds its heel in your face
like your name was dirt
to begin with.
Manners and Courtesy by Mohammed Naziru Iddrisu
