Write a book about them.

Place a scar on his forehead,

or a mockingjay pin on her hoodie.

So, when he's left with blood pooling beneath his prepubescent body,

gasping for his final breaths by a park bench,

or her pure slumber is interrupted with the searing lead of a bullet,

you sob as if the killer shouted a faux-Latin phrase

while holding a wand.

And you're stirred with disgust

since evil forces could allow children's lives to be marked solely with a cannon shot

that echoes in a high-tech domed Colosseum.

Write the chronicles of our heroic rebels,

born into this Order of Innocent Black Lives,

battling against murderous forces

who long to keep their perverse power.

Then you'd see that the systemic unchecked violence on brown babies

mirrors the Capital’s thirst for a tribute’s blood

and those black cloaks are blue uniforms

with dark mark badges,

reveling in the bigoted biases of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named

because he's protected with anonymity, pension, and paid vacation.

Write a book about him,

so you're filled with dread when you see he's on his last chapter.

Turn it into a movie,

so that even the illiterate can read between the lines of the mainstream’s

eager excuses to execute.

And they can rest in peace knowing that main characters never die.