My Honour, So I Object

Today I have no counsel. No mouthpiece carved from conscience, no briefcase of softened truths, no evidence to prove innocence. Just me— the accused, standing in the ribcage of a collapsing courtroom, where the gavel echoes like a gunshot in a cathedral. But I will speak in a voice stitched from landfill smoke and the static of forgotten warnings. Because this is about honour. And I must object. I did not poison the oceans, greed did, I did not choke the animals, pride did I did not warm the earth— hatred did. I did not pile up landfills, uncontrolled ambition did. I did not create the disposable culture, convenience did. I plead not guilty, nor do I claim my innocence. I did not clog the riverbeds, but I was found there like a fingerprint on a crime committed by indifference. I did not strangle the coral, but I was wrapped around its throat like a silk apology. I did not silence the birdsong, but I was lodged in the beak when the singing stopped. I did not fill bloodstreams with microplastics but I shimmered there, a sliver of forever swallowed willingly. All the protests—I understand. But pruning the branch won’t cleanse the root. I am not the root. I am the residue. Now the court has arrived in robes stitched from recycled guilt, demanding I dissolve like attention spans or empathy. So, I ask— not for mercy, but for memory. Not for pardon, but for reckoning. And instead of raising voices against me— just let go of vices, and I will be ready -for the swallow of gallows.