Cyanide lullabies flow from mother’s swollen throats,

Blood thicker than Kool-Aid.

Drown their cries with the sound of gunfire.

Those who do not perish under pressure,

Convulse in the grass.

If their brains aren’t already black sponges,

Soaking up the toxins of a madman’s ramblings,

They were dead when they walked through the chapel doors.

He filled their heads with stories of belonging—

One foot out of line

And the disease will make its escape through exit wounds

Of the tyrant’s splintered skull.

Being different does not come with a death toll.

Life is a jungle—

Danger lurks even in the thickest brush—

Either you run

Or you wait for the bullets to tell you the truth for once.