We all look the same in the dark.

Your tears, your blood — they mean

nothing.

The dog that bites is

no more alive than the dog that

barks.

There’s no prayer for those

born unbelonged;

only the hope of heaven

and disastrous song,

with hand-holding,

grief, and fear,

and great justice,

and voices whispering in

their ears.

Our grass is red, and blue,

and white.

Not even the dark can hide

what you’re seeing —

begging defeat and fight.

Not even pressure can stop

this foreignous bleeding.