What if one of those dead children was yours

on either side

not a lifeless body without a name

not a vaguely human shape 

hidden under a piece of white cloth

but someone you cared for since conception

their mother’s laugh

their father’s smile

what if was you who put that child to bed 

the night before

kissed their forehead

told them you loved them

and now they’re dead 

from overpressure

covered in rubble

those eyes that looked back at you 

the day before

are gone

a voice

you’ll never hear again

an innocence corrupted 

by violence

they’ll call it a casualty of war

in a weak attempt

to assign purpose

you’ll find someone to blame

but what does purpose matter

when you’re holding what’s left of your child

trembling with an uncurable pain

and fear

because you told your child ‘monsters don’t exist’

and now you must spend the rest of your life

resisting the urge to become one

or maybe

it’s too late