I have not recognized my own voice since that day.
the sandpaper I'm sorry's and oh my god's, how's and why's
have worn away the lining of my throat
burned my mouth and tongue
and my words catch on the scratches and new grooves
the cracks that have have formed on the insides of my cheeks
and none of it means anything anymore.

They stand there on Main Street
with their camera crews
filming burning candles
and piles of water-logged teddy bears
remind us that the nation is not done with us
they are not done pitying us
using our sadness
our terror to remind them of basic human decency.

And I have seen the pictures
read the articles and essays
the letters to children who aren't coming home
and I am numb
and the tears only come when I drop something on my hand
drop it hard and fast
and the pain pushes me over the edge
and I wail for twenty minutes
the sobs squeezing through my throat
and sounding more like an old man laughing
than myself in pain and grief,
exhausted,
and that only makes me cry more
because I can't even recognize my own tears
my crying is not my crying
but some odd, animal sound
base and tiny
seeping out my lungs
and searing my chest as it seizes against the sobs.

And that ache is unbearable
it push-pulls at my shoulder blades
out my chest
drilling out
hot and catching on my ribs
but I almost love that ache
that memory of feeling
that sick, shared bond with so many people I wish I didn't know so I could ignore it.
But that's a lie because this can't be ignored.
not by me.
and the ache is real
the ache is familiar
it is believable and undeniable
it is everything that this situation is not.

And that sickly, sticky numbness
that comes when the pain and confusion threaten my sanity
is all I know.
So I sit,
pressing the sore spot on my hand
so I can feel anything else.