This is how we live
with our sidearms drawn
our fingers free of scars
and polished
sheltered in the skin
of privilege
ripped away from someone else’s skull,
stretched and starched and painted on
until it fits our own
we are the faces
of the things
we need to hate.
Cowering inside,
doors locked, the black holes of our brains
filled up with pious rhetoric
lying down to sleep on satin sheets
to dream the nightmares of the idiots
terrified of children
and of peace.