They live among us.

Who am I?

We see them every day,
we cannot know.

Why me?

Working day to day,
the dead walking,
leaving invisible trails of blood in their wake.

I deserved it.

Dreams filled with running,
monsters hiding in plain sight,
burnt out shells,
devoid of human light.

Why do I even care?

Nights spent alone,
sleep cannot take it away,
no safety found in their homes,
smoldering ash,
where human beings used to be.

Maybe if I...

All avenues cut off,
seething pain turned to numbness,
the burden of the day,
phantom wounds cut to the quick,
by the time we're aware,
it's far too late.

Why am I so unworthy?

This story is as old as time itself,
speak the word,
tell this story to the forty-four percent who are still children,
they're young,
they'll get over it,
tell it to the eighty percent under thirty,
it builds character,
tell it to the walking dead born every two minutes,
it's not my problem.

When did God stop caring?

The law,
all encompassing,
all knowing,
all powerful,
what a joke,
indifferent,
indecisive,
imperfect science.

When did home become a prison?

Tell this story to the law,
tell it to the judge,
tell it to the predator,
tell it to the sixty percent that go unreported,
tell it to the ninety-seven percent that will never see the bars that bind,
tell it to the two-thirds who knew their reaper,
tell it to the thirty-eight percent who stared into the face of familiarity,
the abysmal side of human nature.

*Tell this story to the one-fifth of women in this country,
who fall prey to twisted shadows,
the hearts of man,
tell them that they are worthy