Feed me lies, tell me my hate makes me holy,
tell me my venom is virtue, my malice divine.
I am always right—that’s the right’s truth, its liturgy.
God, hurt the faggots, twist their love into thorns.
God, hurt the migrants, let the desert consume them.
God, hurt the left, brand their hearts with felonies.
God, hurt the women, shackle their choices to dogma.
God, hurt the kind, make them bleed for their mercy.
God, hurt the enemy, whoever we name them.
God, arm the righteous with rifles, with Bibles, with scorn.
God, let the cages grow smaller till the air leaves their lungs.
God, let their protests be silenced, their voices erased.
God, let their bodies be battlefields, their wills disgraced.
God, let their compassion be a curse, their empathy a crime.
God, let their blood fill the rivers, their bones mark the time.
God, hate your children, for we hate each other.
We are your mirrors, your wrath, your disgrace.
We build our altars from ash and from slaughter,
and call it salvation, and call it your grace.