By Lily Connolly
I see the students of my generation frazzled by fears of being shot in classrooms,
marching through urban streets during third period, writing funeral scripts
at lunchtime,
Life-centered minors laying their friends to rest between political rallies and soccer practice,
Feverish futurists trying to rewrite ancient scripture to prevent radioactive equipment
from taking out the daylight,
Who show up early on the first day of school with transparent backpacks to choose
a seat away from the windows and doorways,
Who practice walking in a straight line with their hands on top of their heads
during math class to assemble under floodlights only to hear the principal
on the other side of the walky-talky announce the drill is now finished,
Who go the mall after the drill to buy new Skechers without pink sparkling lights
because their teacher said the killer might be able to find you with those shoes,
Who stomp amongst angry streets to explode optimistic kindly-angered words
outside a politician’s silent mansion,
Who dismantle musty storms with a sun-drop of handwritten letters to senators,
filling in the empty white spaces with tipsy red hearts that are never seen,
Who stand in front of their puffy-painted mirrors to recite eulogies and practice
singing church hymns that our leaders said will solace the families,
Who instead chant stories of equality, liberty and fairness to legislators who have
once again failed to protect the children,
Who spend recess wailing over the last words of their best friend, thinking about how
Carmen used to have a perfect winged eyeliner and add a truckload of
sugar to her coffee,
Who spend their empty-eyed sleepovers pacing the basement, roaring about a future
that involves drastic change,
Who are malnourished by notices for breaking dress code rules, never seeing advertisements
for where to seek help during depression, hearing more debates about ovaries
than gun control,
Who use crayons to make signs to bring to rose-garden protests, shifting dreams
away from graduation to haunting memories of passing notes with the killer
in third period.
Another mother’s heart races when the school calls, another problematic child
doesn’t get the help that he needs, and another and another and another and another
little sister doesn’t come home from school,
We are simultaneously the ones in the coffin and the ones putting children there!
Buying black dresses! Singing the hymns! Writing to senators! I hear
the students of today beginning to roar!
About the Author
Bullets into Bells 