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 Aug 2018 Miranda Mondino
Beaux
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never go home again.
My room will sit unused,
A capsule frozen in time,
A snapshot of how I was.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my dog again.
She will sit at the front door
Waiting for me and wondering,
Why I never came home.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never graduate from high school.
My yearbooks will sit stacked
Stopped short of their goal,
Missing years that should have been.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my mom again.
She will sit distraught,
Planning a funeral
For a child taken from her.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my friends again.
They'll sit together, missing me.
One empty seat among them,
A constant reminder of their loss.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my little sister again.
She will sit through high school
Knowing I can't guide her through,
That she has to figure it out alone.

If I die in a school shooting
My school will be stained.
Pools of students lives will sit,
Blood tattoos on the brick structures,
Marks of death ground into it.

If I die in a school shooting
Everyone will wear black.
They'll send their thoughts and prayers
To a town marred by death,
Forever to be the home of a shooting.

If I die in a school shooting
Will the world change?
Or will I become one of hundreds  
Of kids who have to die?
What will it take?

If things continue this way
Children will have to live in fear.
They'll look over their shoulders
Always worried and wondering,
If they'll die in a school shooting.
The state of Florida is now home to the two most deadly mass shootings in American history. Pulse Nightclub was attacked in my city, I have friends who attend Marjory Stoneman Douglas in Parkland. My little sister often fears going to school. I'm afraid to graduate and leave her. I want to be able to protect her if something happens. I hate that we have a reason to be afraid... That it's reasonable to have these fears. I hate it so f*cking much.
Nous nous battons pour protéger ceux que nous aimons; et nous sacrifier à notre tour.
Le heurtoir en argent posé sur la porte de la mort s'est égratigné et s'est usé dans ma main.
Dans la mort, nous trouvons la paix, mais dans la vie, nous trouvons l'amour.
Avec cela, vous ne pouvez pas gagner la guerre, mais soyez assuré que vous gagnerez la bataille en cours
Et, la bataille sera gagnée, pas avec des chiffres, mais avec la volonté pure
Tant que vous ne tombez pas en proie aux mains égoïstes de la cupidité
Et même si ces mains vous dévoraient, vos grands héritages survivront dans ceux qui vous ont connu
Et le baiser doux de la mort sera juste un autre tourneur de page dans votre histoire sans fin.
Car une histoire, aussi importante que la tienne, ne meurt jamais; il est seulement oublié dans la bibliothèque d'un esprit
Pourtant, je promets de rester et de garder les pages de tomber entre les mains de la carie
Car même si ces pages tombent, elles seront rappelées et surveillées; regardé par ceux qui vous regardaient avant
Parce que ces souvenirs ont été conçus par le seul amour intouchable par les mains du temps.
A joint poem with an amazing poet, called Iris Garden, on a different site.
This should offer a translation.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1xWQRiBWJqSNmLXdxxT0VAEc4t3OuIXkU0K5ejy8mN8Q/edit
 Dec 2017 Miranda Mondino
nim
I thought he was perfect.
He's got the cutest smile, a handsome face; yet not too hot so other girls would steal him.
Smart, aces the exams without studying, too.

Clever, cute, loyal to death and loves me, too.
What more could I possibly ever wish for?

The thin layer of sweat covers his body, glittering in the last dusk's breath.
Sparkles of silver are in his eyes, as if God himself got down on Earth to pour galaxies in his wooden eyes, which are prospecting me.

So, what's the missing puzzle?
You love him, don't you?

Then look at you.

Gazing at the reflection in the mirror, quietly standing.
I look at the dark circles under my eyes which are expanding, following my nose line by the parallel.

Then I look at my nose which I've always hated; the uneven line, like the messy sea in sky's rage.

Then I look at myself.

And I rage, too.

So where's the missing puzzle?
Why does he care?
Why do I?
Ah, youth - well you wore me thin,
And, by the skin of I teeth I'd almost felt something.

So there's the missing puzzle.
Me.

I even showed him how I look without makeup. I showed him my madness and my crazyness which would shoo any man away.
Why's he here?

I'm not perfect like him.
And I can't stand, oh, I can't stand the pressure.
I look at my curvy body and stretch marks, lining my legs and showing me my fight with life I'd quit from for another reason.

Why me?

And now,
The mirror's smudged with blood
And I'm sitting on a lonely chair,
A lonely soul, in a lonely room,
With a lonely mind in this lonely world.

I don't know love no more.
How could I?
I take out the mirror bits from out of my fist, silently observing.

Then I look at me.

The face of a disappointed warrior with a long past of fighting her own life,
And it might seem dramatic to you,
But I've had a lot of things on my mind
Which you wouldn't find on the normal silver plate.

I'm not perfect, nor I plan to be.
I see through the lies caused by the love veil, and I choosed to rip it off, but it's not falling down.

And I'm afraid,
I'm afraid if I stay;
When will he
Take it
Off?
A simple love story.

— The End —