The screen is my eyelids.
I blink, it reloads.
I was fifteen when my innocence was taken,
not by touch, but by weapons built for mankind.
I wished it to be fleshy,
warm with breath, skin against skin
but it was flashy with Kalashnikovs coughing fire.
Blasts moaning through the streets,
Chants lurking every corner.
I was 15 when I understood
movies are merciful liars.
They edit the screams.
perfume the dead with music.
And let the hero rise in the last five minutes.
I wanted to be that hero.
I looked around for the camera.
There wasn’t one.
So, I chose to keep breathing.
I was 15
when my heart crushed,
not by the girl next door,
but by a brother
who swallowed the light
and spat me into the dark.
I am older now.
The episode still airs.
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