Foreword / Introduction
You might notice that this poem seems autobiographical, and there’s a reason for that. This poem is based on a close friend’s experiences of having lived in a warzone. We worked together to turn her story into this poem.
Poem: What I Remember Before [Confessional Free Verse]
I used to know what normal felt like—
before the sounds that never stop,
before I learned to sleep through anything,
before my hands stopped shaking when doors slam.
I’m trying to remember my friend’s laugh,
but all I hear now is the other stuff.
They say children are resilient;
that’s just a fancy way of saying we survive things we shouldn’t have to.
I’m not resilient; I’m just still breathing.
There’s a difference, but grown-ups don’t get that.
They pat themselves on the back for our survival,
like we chose this, like we’re okay.
I watched my neighbor leave in pieces;
not all of him made it out.
I can’t unknow that now—it’s just in my head forever.
When I close my eyes, I see things I shouldn’t see,
things no person should see, especially not me.
But here we are, and nobody is stopping it.
Some grown-up somewhere in a nice room
decided this was worth it,
decided I was worth less than whatever they’re fighting for.
They’ve never met me, never seen my face,
but they chose this for me anyway.
How do you do that and still sleep at night?
I don’t hate anyone—that’s the weird part.
I should probably hate somebody,
but I just feel tired, and confused, and scared.
The people hurting us think they’re right.
The people protecting us think they’re right.
And I’m just here bleeding, wondering why right has to hurt so much.
Everyone keeps saying it’ll get better,
that this will end, that we’ll rebuild.
But you can’t rebuild what was in my head before—
the version of me that didn’t know this stuff existed.
That person is gone and not coming back.
You killed that when you decided your war mattered more than my childhood.
I want to tell every grown-up everywhere,
every single one in every country making these choices:
Look at what you’re doing. Actually look.
Not from far away with maps and strategy.
Come here. Stand next to me. Smell what I smell.
Then tell me it’s necessary. Then tell me it’s worth it.
You teach that killing is wrong.
You have laws, and rules, and consequences,
but then you make special exceptions.
You say it’s different when it’s big, when it’s countries.
But it’s not different. I’m still just as dead.
My mom is still just as gone. My home is still just as destroyed.
If I survive this, if I grow up,
I’m never doing this to someone else’s children. Never.
I’m going to remember exactly how this feels—
how scared, how helpless, how stupid and wrong—
and I’m going to spend every day making sure
no other version of me has to know what I know.
You could stop this right now. Today.
Everyone could just put the weapons down.
I know you think it’s more complicated than that,
but from where I’m sitting, it really, really isn’t.
You’re choosing to keep going, choosing to keep destroying,
and we’re the ones paying for your choices with pieces of ourselves we’ll never get back.
Maybe you forgot what it’s like to be powerless,
to have your whole life decided by someone else’s anger.
Let me remind you then, since I’m living it:
It’s terrifying, and it’s lonely, and it makes you feel like nothing,
like you don’t matter enough to save.
Is that what you want us to learn? That violence is how things get solved?
Because I’m learning something different.
I’m learning that grown-ups can’t be trusted with big decisions,
that all your wisdom and experience means nothing
if you still think war is ever, ever the answer.
There’s always another way. You just have to want it enough.
Question is: do you want peace more than you want to win?
