The Poetic Corner: The Monsters Under My Bed

I remember running up our flight of lengthy stairs, after the lights dimmed, and the darkness overtook whatever pieces of pale light remained.

As a child, I feared such darkness—as I’m sure, many young children do.

I was frightened by all those imaginary characters hiding within the depths of the dimness.

The ghosts that grabbed at your ankles. The old hags creating a ruckus in the closet until you drifted off into your innocent slumber.

All those falsified stories, all those falsified characters—a complete hoax created by my dear mother.

An old wives’ tale, if you will.

 

But, what happens when those monsters become real—a man of skin and bones and pulsating blood?

And they carry AK-47s? Military-style weaponry? In the hallways of a seemingly secure place?

And what happens when “it’ll never happen here” does?

 

What happens when you must step up and protect the most vulnerable around you? In ways you’ve never fully envisioned? And you’re ill-prepared to handle the task at hand?

And all you see is the fear through your children’s eyes? Their tears, their hurt, their terror.

What happens then, Mr. Do-Nothing Politician? When all you do is offer god-forsaken prayers in the midst of all these tragedies?

 

How do we expect our children to learn within these walls, when they themselves do not feel safe?

When we ourselves, as the adults entrusted to teach and serve, cannot guarantee their absolute safety?

What happens then, Mr. Do-Nothing Politician?

 

And on days like today, I feel the weight of every tear. Every innocent life touched by this seemingly contentious and politicized “issue”—ones that arouse both anger and hostility.

But, while we engage in vitriolic arguments, our children die.

 

And, so forth, my heart aches for all the lives of lost.

Another life gone.

Another human slaughtered. Our children butchered. My brother and sister dead.

Such beautiful souls turned into dust. Gone. And the Monster prevails.

They’re dead because of your inaction—must I remind you, Mr. Do-Nothing Politician?

They are not in a better place. So, please, save your forged prayers.

 

Go ahead, say I feel too much, please do.

Call me sensitive. Call me emotional.

Tell me not politicize such calamities.

 

Go ahead, say that I was lucky, please do.

And, I was...this time.

The Monster at Northwestern, a hoax—but, what happens when it’s not?