It was a school day. Like many days before it I wrote a nasty letter to myself listing all the reasons I was subservient to my peers and detailed an extreme dislike for myself and everything in the world. I was thirteen.

And I was in my science teacher's classroom. Or many other classrooms throughout the day with the television replaying the same clips. And one of my teachers commented and that it was a memory our generation would never forget. I laughed, quietly of course. Adding reasons to detonate myself into my notebook.

But, that teacher was not wrong. A line of a poem never settled into the dust. And now, fourteen years later, I can put away all the angry notes toward myself and listen to what I was really trying to write. I can hopefully let go of the line that followed me for so long.

September 11, 2001.

Start of the day.
New page to write
angry letters to myself.
The bruises camouflage
With my skin and the lies
Are keeping me sane.
It's all over the news.
Airplanes crashing
into the World Trade Center.
Airplane crashing into the Pentagon.
Buildings collapsing.
Yesterday it rained.
And today bodies rained down the skies.
What it must feel to finally die.
What it must feel to breathe
And die within as your loved ones
Fall from the sky.
What it must feel to hurt.
To finally see the pain.


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