Red
For the blood on my hands
And the remains of the heart
Still frantically beating underneath poached skin
Red
For the children who never matured with grace or dignity
And saw age forced upon them for the sake of sex
Still pulsating, their genitalia could hardly keep up
Red, oh Red
There was always more, one nights, one hundred nights
They could never be enough
But for the men who held them captive, there was always more
To go around, slap lipstick on three year olds
And force pills into toddler boys to make them harder
Red
For the tears uncollected by the outside
Prayers be pots and pans in a thunderstorm
Good wishes be the lifeboats of the Titanic
In all of the tweets there is but little compensation
For the children so hallucinatory that even their own lives
Seem imaginary
