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I don't want to know the name of the man with the gun.
I don't want to know the name of the perpetrator-
the one who sculpted their anger into bullets
and aimed at what looked like the ones that had done him wrong.
I don't want to know his name.
I want to know the name of those
who took his bullets without choice.
The innocent that were forced to die martyr
for someone else's pain.
But I don't want to know the statistics or autopsy.
I would rather know their favorite color,
their favorite song,
what their definition of love is.
I would rather know of the life that was forced
to flash before their eyes
than of the fate of their body-
the cage for their immortal soul.