Just twelve years old
And dead.
Pale skin
Paled further by the loss of blood.
Eyes glazed over with damned necrosis.

I would hate him
For what he has done.
But hate is the crime
That brought us here.

They brought you to the lighted room
With a masked man compressing your chest.
But it was warmer here.
And these strangers were more your friends,
Than the friends who left you behind.

I am sorry that you died alone
In the vacant room
Where the Crack man had been.
There wasn't even any furniture.
And you were too young to know
That something was very wrong.

The press will cry of loss tomorrow.
But that will be for the survivors,
Those who came to say that you were
Who they had hoped that you weren't.
But we don't even know what a loss you were.
For you were too young to know,
And you were too young for us to know you.

The Crack man doesn't remember your name,
But I hope that he doesn't forget your face,
That was pale from the loss of blood.
But he will.
And his dead soul will kill again.
I am glad that you can only die once.

I would hate him
For what he has done.
But hate is the crime
That brought us here.