I met him in second grade.

When I was working on

two-digit subtraction.

And I remember his face

on the news.

It was so

so hard to see

that I

buried my face

into a pillow

nearly suffocating myself.

Sandy Hook. 28 dead.

At school
my two-digit subtraction

was replaced with a drill.

Hide in the corner.
Turn off the lights.

Read a book while
fingers quiver and
fear bleeds in with the ink.

“It will never happen again”

We tried to forget.
But forgetting
never erases everything.
Does it?

San Bernardino. 16 dead.

Maybe

I was old enough 

to see the fright
in everyone's eyes.

Maybe

that was the first time

I realized

that

Maybe

he was finally
settling into the world.

Orlando nightclub. 50 dead.

Sometimes he doesn’t knock
Before barging in.

Stoneman Douglas. 17 dead.

Sometimes he doesn't warn us

When the wisps of fright
are about to slip in.

Another one. Too many people dead.

It's a usual routine:

A week of mourning.

A week of seeing the victims.

A week of pictures plastering the TV.
 

then back to normal.

He stopped closing the door
after coming in.

Now,
it's wide open,
inviting him in.

but I never close it.

because I stopped noticing it.

One of the longest relationships
I've had
is so open
is so vulnerable
is so susceptible

yet
is still burning thoughts of
anger towards the world
into my mind
with scathing, sharp acid.

yet,
is still here.

it doesn't look like it's going away soon either.

And we wonder why.