If I could show them a map of my body,
Paint the insides of my irises,
to try and put to canvas a second of what I feel,
Without jurisdictions from every mouth that watches me,
without their eyes trained by the word of god,
I would make perform for them an orchestra,
A war time, Warchestra
Where value of hearts would be seen far and wide,
not from colour,
but in the cloth that built it,
each knot, thread, knit that made it up,
every fault that had to be redone,
and the patches that broke it,
Warchestra would be sung from the lungs,
the lungs alone would provide noise from every droplet of blood that entered each alveoli,
each breathe, each collapsed lung,
every cell that made up the pain
the lungs would transcend into noise that would be released from mouth,
as if someone had died,
and you were to put to rest your beloved,
opera would line mouths,
they would sing meaningful songs,
One note from tongue would leave your ears ringing,
your heart stuck from the throbbing it has just experienced,
then I would come to the stage,
undress myself,
have my naked body stand in front of them,
show them what they killed,
then I would leave.