Because we know that, once in a while, truth sees the light of day.
If you talk to the mandibles and maxillae, they’ll tell you which son is whose. The sternum will pass on rumours diffused from long dead hearts, now settled in the bone: who actually belonged to whom, for instance. What went wrong with which love. Such things. Phalanges and metatarsals will walk you through the history of the family business, recall all the gore it took to establish a good name. By good name, we mean a weaponised proper noun potent enough to destroy if need be and build whenever mandatory.
When you are done with the coroner’s report, please do all the burying sufficient to keep the children innocent. We pollute them only when they turn eighteen. Then they bleat on about the lies they were told before they realise they have no one else, really -at which point they return to the fold. You see, friends and acquaintances eventually float away – in allegiance and in focus – but blood thicker than water doesn’t drift too far.
For now, we bide our time…spend it getting the viscidity of that ichor just right. Yes, thus we justify our iniquities. We are family. We are law. We are everything.
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