The Witch's Tale Lucia Trujillo
for John Merrick How many have cried, I am not an animal chased down the street splattering the cobblestone with blood falling knees, pummeled with stones, Crying out for mothers poked and prodded and gawked at hated for beauty and killed for ugliness paraded, a party favor for the predator inventing every creature they kill “Make it move!” naked hunched over in a birdcage children hold cupped hands through the bars, offering seeds as some kind of recompense for pistol-whipped bodies let out only into the colosseum where men are given permission to massacre, And what do they do with the bodies? they string them up on branches for those to gather round and hear the last round of, I am not an animal! I am a huma-And see the awe at watching the last word choked as the bodies of witches begin to swing swing swing.
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