The NRA headquarters is blown to smithereens by children holding bombs made of
acrylic paint and shredded OshKosh overalls.

Their former classrooms are blanketed in broken crayons and rusted craft scissors.
They have gaps in their milk teeth and itchy bug bites. Their hair smells like apple
conditioner, cigarette smoke, and gunpowder.

Small hands and tiny feet slap tile to the sound of Fourth of July fireworks.
Their fists are clenched and canines are bared. They look tiny and feral under the
office fluorescents.

When they are made to fall, they leave fingerpaint handprints on the linoleum. When
our oil dries up we will lick their blood off the floor and use it to power our outlet malls.
Power lines will droop with the hot humidity of them clouding the air.

You lift your fist in the air while the wasps feast on the congealing blood of our young.
Do you have an earache? Can you feel it pooling against your eyes? Can you taste the
molten ichor of our youth? You’re swimming in it.