What makes you a cannibal? 

Tell me—what counts?  

Would you still be cursed if you, 

chew, choke & cherish—just to survive? 

Would you be named a monster, survivor, lover?  

Or maybe even a believer? 

What makes you a cannibal?  

Picture this! A Crash. 

Bones broken, blood banquet! 

The air reeked of iron, the sweet rot 

of skin, smoke still clawing at your throat, fusing into you. 

Five, six…seven days. Your stomach growls, grabbing at your 

ribs like a caged animal. Gnawing at the edge of your stomach.  

Every sound in the silence is louder than your heartbeat. 

And then it comes—a hunger so deep, that a sinister thought creeps in. 

“Zi dari na moku.”  

What makes you a cannibal?  

Is it the thought? 

The whisper before the bite? 

Or the bite itself? 

Your eyes narrow on a body not as broken as the others 

You force yourself up. 

You reach. 

You tear. 

You taste. 

Swallowing silence…spitting out sin. 

The meat–warm in your mouth. 

 the stink of marrow hovering, 

 blood, salty as sweet, 

smears of ash lingering between your teeth.  

The stench clings to your tongue. 

The smell stains your hands. 

The taste refuses to leave you. 

Your hunger—greedy, dense, controlling. 

Shaking you after the meal. 

You scream. 

Because hunger is louder than guilt. 

And because of that, the guilt lingers. 

It rots. 

It festers. 

It seeps into your bones. 

It makes a home there. 

And it will not leave. 

So I ask you again: What makes you a cannibal? 

Is it the bite you take? 

The silence after? 

Or the echo that follows you,  

long after the feast is done? 

It feeds you. 

It frees you. 

Yet the guilt festers. 

Because in that moment, 

You didn’t just eat–You. Became. 

And in the silence after… 

You’ll ask yourself again: What makes you a cannibal?