• Subhana Zafar

Bless you, Mr. President

His breath was foul- colder than blood after death

and as rancid as blistering orange flesh.

He swore his spit was sacred so they drank with insatiable thirst and glared at us with hollowed eyes so when he screeched ‘hoax,’ they squealed at our cries.

He reeked of murder and belched up crime. So we protected our faces to filter out the grime and shield us from his division and moral stasis.

But how could they swim? In the fluids of an infidel, who knew nothing of the Galilee Sea? He, who could solely float in the tears of us, when he passed gas in our streets.

We Could Not Breathe.

They will always love hate, they desecrate. We just want justice. Our bodies are overburdened with numbness.

So when he coughed again they inhaled. But when he sneezed, he killed us

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