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July 13, 2013

We were supposed to celebrate today.
Our neighbours did.
Of course, their celebrations were not loud,
they simply…were.
They simply were together, there, inside—
their children home—
their children safe—for one more precious year.
Just one more year.
What hell is this that you have left us in?
This coal-black hell,
of lonely homes and broken, dusty streets—
that you have left.
I cannot—please—I will not watch you die—
can’t I pretend?
Without my television telling me
that you are dead,
can’t I pretend you’ve made it somewhere good?
Can’t I pretend?
What hell is this, where even blank screens scream
“I have your child!”—
my baby girl, what hell is this—what hell?
Come back to me!
I need you here—please—please, come back to me!—
the blank screen screams
and I can’t look away—my girl! my girl!
My baby girl.
They say the sun will always come again,
when nighttime falls.
So call me blind, for sunshine will not come—
the screen is black,
the day is night,
the night is dark,
and you are gone.

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