They taught us where to stand, which hand to raise, which names were clean, which names to hate. Nobody taught us what to do when the voice behind the flag was lying too. We learned obedience in folding chairs, fluorescent mornings, borrowed prayers. Maps on the wall with borders drawn like every line had always belonged. They gave us heroes without their scars, gave us enemies shaped from ours. Said, “Keep your head down, you’ll be safe.” Funny how fear learns every face. Then truth got quiet. Rumors got guns. Everybody pointed at everyone. We were children when they taught us the script. We got older. We stopped reading it. No liars. No kings. No hand around another throat calling itself peace. No masters. No saints who need a frightened crowd to make their heaven safe. Your throne is only borrowed dust. Your walls are only borrowed trust. No liars. No kings. Just ordinary blood— and the right to sing. We bleed the same. We bleed the same. So tell me— who taught us to hate the same? At dinner, someone lowered their voice. Next door became a dangerous choice. One wrong color, one wrong name, and suddenly the street had changed. The evening screen kept score of blame, a different villain every day. Old friends learned to speak in codes. Mothers checked the locks at home. They made a gospel out of doubt, then sold salvation by the shout. Every slogan needed someone beneath it. Every kingdom needs you not to see it. But memory isn’t theirs to own. My father’s hands. My neighbor’s home. The names they crossed out still had faces. The people they erased still left places. No liars. No kings. No hand around another throat calling itself peace. No masters. No saints who need a frightened crowd to make their heaven safe. Your throne is only borrowed dust. Your walls are only borrowed trust. No liars. No kings. Just ordinary blood— and the right to sing. I don’t want your martyrdom. I don’t want your promised land. I want the kid across the street to make it home without explaining who he is. I want a mother at the door to hear the key and know it’s only her child coming in. I want history with all its stains. No halo. No convenient names. If truth is sacred, let it survive a question. If power is honest, let it survive rejection. We are not your pieces. Not your proof. Not the bodies you spend for truth. Not your echo. Not your prey. You taught us fear. We learned to stay. You taught us silence. We learned to say— No liars. No kings. No mouth is born beneath another. No bloodline makes a throne. No masters. No saints. No country needs a lie to call its people home. Let every borrowed kingdom rust. Let every frightened god lose trust. No liars. No kings. No need to burn the world— just stop kneeling to it. We bleed the same. We grieve by name. We don’t need one more enemy to know from where we came. No liars. No kings. Just people learning how to speak. They taught us how to bow. We learned when not to. No liars. No kings. No more.
