It starts with a letter.
Black ink on white paper
so fragile and delicate
The shattering of glass
White paper turning red
Screams and cries
render my ears
fills my ears
leave my tongue
parched with fear
as I reread the parchment of my doom.
I swallow back my words
Choking on them
Unable to speak.
I am not dead, I want to scream as they wheel me into a mortuary
I am alive.
Yet no one hears.
Instead, they make me pretty
Doll me up in new clothes (crisp clean clothes)
Give me toys to play with (shiny new toys)
And cut my hair
Not caring that I am a hares-breadth away from having my head cut off.
They heap my body into a pile
of other pieces of flesh
with no names or voice
We are shipped off in a coffin
stay in their coffins, never feeling the sunlight, vampires that wither away like ashes in the morn
Others break out
Rise from the dead
Like Jesus, we are crucified for our people.
We are ants marching in a line, bees in a hive, sacrificing for our queen
We raze the ground with anger and burn everything in sight
We burn ourselves,
Turning into ashes in the morn.
We are tin soldiers marching to battle
Our hearts pound to the beat of a drum
As we carry our guns
We pray for one more day under the sun
Our lives have only just begun
Please, I don't want to be done.
We are criscrossing veins full of blood, our lives intertwined intricately
If one vein is cut
We don't want to die
So we pray every day
that we are the lucky ones
Who in the game of life win the die roll
But we do not know what winning is
Which die to root for
until we lose
We see heads cracked open in watermelons during summer
We see grenades in water balloon fights
We see shame in honor
We see death in life
We are not alive
We are the living dead
in tin battle
marching to our sunsets.