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What more do you want?

 

How many more have to die?

 

How many more will live,

but will come see me years later,

begging for Xanax or Oxycontin

so they can endure the memory

of burning in sacrifice to you?

 

I don’t remember it but I know

the smell of burning flesh.

Your brand is on my forearm.

 

I too was offered to you,

but you didn’t kill me,

and now I spend my days

bandaging those burned

in sacrifice to you

 

and the wounded keep on coming

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