Why can’t I
go home?
This war,
someone died.
There’s blood–
it could just be
red
and I’m freaking out–
why am I freaking out?
Can I come home?
Because someone died
and I wasn’t made
for this.
I was made for mama’s arms
and the kitchen during
the holidays
and well worn sofas and–
Someone died.
Someone was slaughtered
right in front
of my eyes.
His mouth is open.
I’m going to die.
Can I come home?
To warm blankets,
pudgy baby hands,
late night poker
with M&Ms
and everyone laughing–
No where is safe.
I’m going to die
and they’ll just step
over my body
because I’m one ant
in a million.
Can I come home?
Please?
Author T.S. Lowe 