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.

Was.

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.