Ruptured Ear Drums

We shook out our shaky hands and calmed our shaky voices. 

We passed the band aids around.  

We passed the truth around. 

We blew up the whole building, leaving only ruptured ear drums.

Only a couple hallways were still standing, the knight was laying in rubble,
 glass sprinkled everywhere. 

People were calling their loved ones. 

Others were limping around, trying to remember where they
 last had their hearts before the explosion.  

Parents ran around following veins, trying to find their kids 
but didn't realize they were already lost in the smoke. 

It was a crater of limbs. 

We made the channel 5 news. 

They talked about numbers, our numbers, 
and the damage, the impact. 

We made impact. 

They told about specific people, the life they had until last night. 
How everything was going great for them, 
or at least they thought that's what their smile said
 last time they saw it. 

They said her number and how her family is coping. 

They choked back tears on his number because he was always the easiest to talk to, 
now he's lost his hearing and can't even hear your prayers. 

My number was 18. 

The same number of times I've talked myself out of things. 

The number of years I've been trying to learn how to breathe. 

The number of scars on my hands. 

And the same number of times I've painted a smile on my face. 

18. 

They called it "speak for yourself"
 but we didn't just speak for ourselves. 

We spoke for the martyrs. 

The wounded, the victims.

We spoke for our hearts.