Red

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