Three syllables that divide.
Human. Less so.
Faceless, hooded demons crossing invisible lines at the mid of night.
One day we’re just us. The next: Us. Them.
Ancient myth worshippers, lusting for pure blood. Ours. Angry. Angry. Greedy. Swooping down like an army of crows.
One minute we’re just us. The next: Us. Them.
Seeping like ink, silent, unseen, leeching, thieving. Starving rats in our sewage system.
One night we’re just us. Morning: Us. Them.
They are not a child. Beaten. Raped. Running for her life.
They are not a mother. Maths teacher. PhD.
They are not a lover. Full of music. Colours. Plans.
They are not a person. A house in the country. Full of books. Smells of spiced beauties. Terrible singer. Part-time astronomer. Full-time heart broken.
They can’t be.
How else can we say:
One day we’re us. Them.
We’re just us.