This Is Not What Revolution is About

I see desire in their dark eyes, its presence indicated by the thick purple fog that wanders about their pupils, clouding the peripheries and leaking out the sides in a slow dark drip. It collects in their hollowed out cheeks and cupped hands, running amok in the creases and scars which have settled into their palms and from there it seeps through their fingers, dropping to the ground behind them in heavy black and purple trails. It sticks to their soles as they trudge down well-worn paths through swampland and mountainsides, collecting between their toes and staining the skin with red and black impossible to wash-out and impossible to detect.

I see hate in their dark eyes, the love scratches from it’s fingernails visible on their naked backs. I can see it’s arms wrapped lovingly around their necks as it playfully whispers in their ears, massaging their broad chests with calloused hands. It’s there when they fuck. It watches from the corner as they stick themselves into each other compelled by force of habit rather than affection. It watches as they stare into each other’s eyes, feeling nothing but resentment as they spill their poisons, buckle their pants and go home. It does not make them better men and you can’t see it until their pants are undone.

I see potential in their dark eyes, though it’s scarcely visible beneath the scabs on their lips and their long wiry hair. It flushes their faces and widens their eyes, compels their eye-lids to blink like the shutters on cameras. It is the potential which provokes their records of want and of anger, their histories of poverty and blood which ran from the feet of their people. It is their desire which wills their hands into fists, the hate which fills these fists with arms and the potential for change that unites the two.

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