Jun 1, 2023
Content Warning: Gun violence
My brother has started at a high school in California which has some of the strictest gun laws in the country but
we cannot regulate our borders, so sometimes a gun comes from a neighboring state and kills people, or the gun is attached to the belt
next to a taser and a baton, and before our eyes is fired. A girl is killed, or nineteen children are killed, or a family is torn apart.
What a cruel world we live in-and we argue and give our children a bulletproof backpack but we cannot give them a promise, or a future, or hope, but we can offer
thoughts and prayers every year until we are praying that they did not feel pain and stalling court sessions because we’re fine with kids dying if they do it themselves.
But my brother is now ending his first year and I am going into my third and he is still alive, but that’s more than I can say about a lot of children. Maybe I should feel grateful
that I haven’t died yet but every bullet locks into its chamber with finality like the classroom door locks into place and then there is nothing I can do. Here we are, and I am left offering
the same thoughts and prayers I wish I could denounce. I write letters and speak out and here I am, wondering if I should delete this poem entirely because this poem does not
pass laws or stop children from being killed but maybe if I write enough I can convince myself I am doing something, anything at all, and I can pretend that this bandaid can be plastered
over a bullet hole. I am praying I do not have to see another child without a face. I am hoping that this will end and things will change. I don’t know what to do, so here, have this poem. It’s all I can offer.