The Feline Warrior

on the ground face up wounds still fresh pupils dilating

drowning in my own blood

another inch of my skin hardens another beat of my heart weakens

no longer able to live no longer dare to die my eyelids fight hard to open one last time before saying goodbye

and yet seeing what is in my sight —

my flesh, they politicize my gore, they politicize no one prays no one cries do they really care about another fellow human as much as they do about their own agendas that they all rush to justify or criticize or glorify or vilify

out of the countless bullet holes on me, they try to squeeze out one last drop of blood on which they won’t hesitate to capitalize

will this repeat all over again when the next one like me loses their life