by Wisenie Lahens, 16
We write love letters to martyrs who did not know their own names
We pay for peace with the wars inside our bodies
The dips of our collarbones hold the tongues of our people
That have been sent away
In the wind
Or on boat
Or into the sky
We are the very contradiction of a holy war
For what can be holy about a war
The martyrs tell us
“Everything is beautiful because we are doomed”
We spit back
“Everything is beautiful because it is alive”
“But for the dead?” they cry
“The dying?”
“Those destined to be lost?”
I have no patience left
I feel like a martyr who knows death is approaching
And can do nothing to stop the talons from sinking in
The martyrs before me tell me to run
As the martyrs before them told them to run
Quick
Before the people with pitchforks arrive
It was not death coming
It was not death we hurried away from
It was the people
With pitchforks
Willing to sacrifice us for a story
A plot line
A reason to say that their wars were justified
The dips in our collarbones are not deep enough to hold the language of suffering
It is now etched into the fabric of our skin
Read only by those who share the same fate as we do
But by then it is to late
The fire has started
The dead are rising
The pitchfork procession has begun
Neptune, NJ
Bridge Ink 