How easy it is to forget.

When it doesn’t affect you.

When the ones lost, weren’t your loved ones.

How easy it is to forget when it wasn’t your child on the receiving end.

When it wasn’t your daughter shrieking for help as some man had his way with her.

Indirectly telling her, her body only exists his pleasure.

How easy it is to forget when it wasn’t you that missed the call that may have allowed you to talk your son down from that ledge.

How easy it is to forget when your mother makes it home, and you didn’t even think to worry.

How easy it is to forget, when your father won’t get mistaken for an immigrant.

It’s easier to forget the horror when your family isn’t the one being torn apart.

You see how easy it is to forget, when it’s not their sisters and brothers being left for dead.

You see how easy it is to forget, when the bodies don’t look like you.