I look around at all of these

young,

            fresh,

                        naïve

kids.

The girls are begging to be heard –

            their elementary heartaches shouting

            for recognition.

The boys – tainted from first loves

            gone sour, weep.

Everyone crawling,

            hands flailing in the air –

“LOOK AT ME!”

            they screech.

“FEEL MY PAIN!”

            they bellow.

I look at them and think:

You don’t have to scream.

You’ve never been murdered

            over

                        and

                                    over

                                                again

by the one you love.