I Wrote This Instead of Screaming

They lit candles
for a man who played with matches. 
Called him a martyr 
for a fire he stoked. 
Grieved him like a prophet -
as if his tongue
was not slick with gasoline. 

And the others laughed, 
relieved karma had chosen right. 
Cheered
like blood was a punchline. 
Danced on his grave
with the same dead eyes
he once used
to dehumanize. 

The chance at unity didn't survive. 
It was choked beneath hashtags,
spliced into clips,
swallowed by talking points 
before the blood even dried. 

They didn't want unity. 
The bridge was already burning
when he hit the ground. 
And still they danced 
in the glow 
of their own undoing. 

The truth is -
he wasn't a martyr. 
And you aren't holy 
for making his death 
a campaign speech. 

One side lit candles. 
The other lit cigars. 
Both called it in-justice. 

But all I see 
are vultures -
tearing at the same warm corpse
and calling it victory.