they say that children can’t be psychopaths
they say
children can’t be psychopaths—
as if innocence were a law
instead of a rumor.
as if the soul comes standard
with warning labels
and a conscience
pre-installed.
but some of them speak
like accountants of pain,
measuring tone,
studying delay,
watching faces collapse
for data.
they don’t rage.
they don’t cry.
they note.
they ask questions
that sound harmless
until later
when you realize
they already knew the answer
and wanted to see
how you’d lie.
no voice saying stop.
or maybe the voice is there
and they’ve learned
to mute it
like a bad radio station.
they hurt things
not for pleasure,
not even for curiosity,
but to see
if the world flinches
or stays quiet.
sometimes it stays quiet.
sometimes that teaches them
everything.
are they born this way?
or did something leave early—
a hand that didn’t reach,
a word that never came,
a look that should have said
you matter
and didn’t?
we love clean answers.
they don’t exist here.
hope?
maybe hope is just
intervention with good timing.
maybe it’s medication.
maybe it’s distance.
maybe it’s supervision
that never sleeps.
or maybe hope is a story
we tell ourselves
so we can keep eating dinner
while the future sharpens itself
down the hall.
some kids grow out of it.
some grow into it.
some never choose—
they just continue
like weather.
you want a verdict.
I don’t have one.
I’ve seen monsters
with birth certificates.
I’ve seen saints
raised in hell.
and I’ve seen silence
do most of the damage
while everyone waited
for proof.
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