Just another case
     of Satanism in
          the suburbs, murder
               made to order, sin’s
                    sores painted over
                         to look like something
                              normal, no mistake

more unfortunate
     than taking boring
          for granted—before
               closing your minds, think
                    of opening more
                         often their doors, when
                              lives you imitate

fail to compensate
     for your suffering—
          that fate you endure—
               having to be born
                    without a future
                         in a world where men
                              weep and women take

lives to keep them safe
     from ever being
          ignored as they were—
               consider seeing
                    someone else, neighbours
                         who never give in
                              but give lies to save

lives, yours spiced to taste
     better when taken,
          sacrificed to cure
               its existence, skinned
                    alive to make sure
                         this conversation
                              never happened—place

your trust, then, in saints
     who wait, listening
          for a shout or prayer,
               your summoning them
                    what brings closer their
                         own intercession,
                              saved from Heaven’s gate,

wiping from her face
     contemptuous things
          each commonplace whore
               inside of us sings,
                    working boulevards
                         silence seems to sink,
                              sweetened routes we trace

to lay on disgrace
     without opening
          our mouths to say words—
               thrusting javelins
                    of pain—couriers
                         mercenaries run
                              from with haste, these wastes

of hurts our hearts shake
     from machines within—
          how love is measured
               becomes forgotten
                    on weekends where war
                         camps and tramples on
                              lawns envious rakes

claw raw as they rape
     of her locks Heaven’s
          gate, shedding fake tears
               as they shred through land,
                    exhuming bones where
                         hands laid compliments,
                              digging up debts paid.