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.