Stuffies in the glove box,
blood on the headrest.
A kiss to her child's forehead in the morning, never knew it could lead
Into a bullet tearing through her own skull in the afternoon.
So many signs of love
strewn across the seats,
So suddenly stained with
a crimson power play.
A devastated wife clutches her child,
hearts as shattered as the windshield.
It shouldn't have been. Shouldn't even be a fear that lives in our hearts.
But we see the broken glass,
and we will not look away.