You Decided This

A poem written about genocide.

I can feel their limbs,

            (against my arms and legs and back)

hitting, beating, kicking

me and about a million people.

It’s because we’re different.

It’s because we’re wrong.

It’s because we’re weak.

It’s because they’re strong.

            (so strong, I think as I feel the bruise above my lip)

And I tell myself;

I tell myself, “It’s not their fault.

It’s mine. (Always mine. Never theirs.)”

When it used to be:

Never ours.

We don’t know what we did wrong

(They never said. And I don’t think they ever will.).

I’m lying on the ground,

face against cement; tears threatening to break through my eyelids

(but they don’t, because I’m stronger than that).

And it isn’t until I look to my left and see him

lying there with no oxygen in his lungs, no emotions in his heart

(anymore),

that I cry.

Not because he’s my father or brother or best friend,

but because he (like so many others)

had finally given up. 

Author's Note

Written for school.

Reviews

[TransparentHearts]

Written for school or not, I began to cry!!! -sniffles- This is deep...