These bodies are sons and daughters of Christ
squashed on walls like bugs
bleeding: fresh,wet,and dead
like an open sore
damned with bad memories
of collective grief of lips who say yes
to bodies that looks like theirs
But then our history is sad, we never really get back home, we’re spirits roaming the street. Humans when they’re done with us, when they’ve ripped apart all that matters to us, the toss aside into the wind and then we become dirt, we become part of what the hate.