their literature sits in the library;

fake words dripping off the pages’ tongues like poison;

the “teachings” leaving corpses in their wake;

there is a future here, predicted after every inked colon. 

it isn’t quiet,

the words scream murder.

the hatred lingers

the faint stench wafting through the air.

they love to hand off tributes:

The girl an offering to keep peace by a barbaric dictator,

not too far from our own past, no?

but we must maintain the games because of the economics of it all;

they say practiced and perfected cuts of death are necessary,

the scars etched on the back of this ugly country refusing to heal.

Confidence in white supremacy is absolute,

and that past of pain perforates every nook and cranny of this 

sacred?

country.

maybe we should have stayed a couple of prisoners sent from the homeland,

refusing to budge on “our” land.

the pain of the past flashes at every intersection,

concealed in concrete.

but no matter how much we hide,

the truth is inevitable.