POEM: I Am Already Dead

I am already dead.
My life barreling toward an asterisk*,
fine font at the base of a page.
Not a soul but a statistic;
a blip of a bitmap on a graph
behind the entertainment section.

But you don't care.
           At least
           not enough.

Oh, you'll care to send out thoughts
or prayers, 
care to critique politics or policies, 

you Congressmen, "representatives". You presidents.
You'll defend or admonish.
Comment on religion, verbiage, agendas.
And rights!

But only in the sense of
who is right—
which is you, of course,
always you. Because
        that's what it really comes down to,
        isn't it?

But you won't care enough
to speak and
to listen.

To toil together
beyond blanket bromides
and partisan principles.

To have the goddamn balls
in order to sift through the blood
that isn't yours,
fingers coated and cold,
for an answer.


            we’ll just keep dying
            because nothing changes.

Because you won't even care enough
to remember my name
after enough time has passed.

Which is why
I will be a statistic.
Just like all the rest. 
Just like all the ones to come. 
Just like every one of us already is
while you argue
above our young dead bodies
about how fucking much you care.

*And no one will know
she laughed as hard as she loved.

© s.e. carson