There will come some time,

Where you will have to admit it.

At some point, some way along the feeding and spitting out of your maw, there will be too many of us. So many of us that your society heaves with it, sickens with it, dies with it. Your workers and your armies are no longer fit but cared for by broken backs, hands that could carve can only smash.

It was a mistake, you’ll say, and maybe it’s true that those first sputters of the so called little professors were some sort of accident. That the first screams were unforeseen. But plausible deniability starts to run thin when acres of us emerge from the paediatrician’s lair. When even members of your own state that there is some connection worth digging out among the filth. You just pasted on more layers and let it escalate.

Why create us? Filth breeds filth, money breeds money. To many of you, we are just the outcome of the pay cheque, the tax on your conscience to match your national insurance. To some we are much more and much less than that. The moment of creation, to perform the insemination. A secret thrill like public copulation. Except a man can create more with needles than with sperm, make Genghis Khan look an amateur.

Do you ever wish to boast of your creation? That thrill of confession, the denouement? To stare us in the eye and state ‘I did it?’ Foolish, yes, I know. It would be the moment of triumph then downfall, like the braying of a killer condemned to the noose. So instead you’re left with sordid little lies. Lies that wouldn’t hold up your ceiling if people dared to look.

When you created me, you made a mistake. You took too much to use me as your poster girl, too little to completely destroy me.

And so I exist.

For when that time comes,

To make you admit it.

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