It’s Time to Break the Machine

(For the ones who feel fire under their fingernails when told to wait.)

There is a moment—
and maybe it’s already cracked open in your chest—
when your bones don’t just hum,
they scream.
Like steel cables snapping under strain.
Like a truth that refuses to sit quietly.

A trembling beneath your skin that says:
Enough.

When watching feels like betrayal.
When silence curdles in your throat like rot.
When “peace” is a word stretched thin
over the scaffolding of violence.
When you realize the world is not broken—
it was built this way.
Welded with cruelty.
Bolted with profit.
Painted with flags and commercials
to disguise the teeth beneath.

That is the moment.
The rupture.
The sacred, terrifying split
when you understand:
The machine must be broken.

Not paused.
Not reasoned with.
Not politely petitioned.
Broken.

Because this machine—
this rusted, ravenous god of gears and grief—
was not made to serve life.
It was engineered to harvest it.
To mill brown bodies into profit.
To count children as collateral.
To bury hope beneath pipelines.
To write war into contracts
and call it policy.

It fences off the sky from the stateless,
shovels grief into spreadsheets,
turns blood into currency.
And it runs—
oh, it runs—
on oil slicks and drone strikes,
on signatures soaked in silence,
on ballots and bayonets,
on bipartisan deals
for unmarked graves.

It runs on your stillness.

But you—
you were never meant to be silent.
You were not born to pad its path with your soft flesh.
You are not here to grease its gears with your dreams.

You are the wrench.
The riot.
The righteous interruption.

You are the scream in its circuitry,
the ghost in its gears.
You are here to jam yourself
into its teeth
until it chokes
on your defiance.

And yes—
they will come for you.
With Sunday smiles,
with sharpened etiquette.
They will whisper of “order”
as their governments rain hell on Gaza,
while borders bloom with barbed wire,
while mothers weep into the walls of detention centers.

They will beg you for civility
as they feed your people to the flames.

Let them beg.
Let them choke
on their polished hypocrisy.

Because Palestinians are not being erased with pleasantries.
Because the ocean does not cradle refugees with kindness.
Because hunger doesn’t knock before it empties a village.
Because empire does not bleed without force.

So break it.

Break the illusion that obedience is a virtue.
Break the script that silences your fury.
Break the glass that shields comfort from consequence.
Break the peace that demands your people die quietly.

We are not here to be granted space.
We are here to take it.
To claim it.
To become it.

And if our freedom smells like smoke—
if it wears a keffiyeh and carries a stone—
if it terrifies the architects of this machine—

Then let it.

Let it fall.
Let it rupture.
Let it burn,
until the ash becomes soil,
and from it—
we rise.