Terrorist

My father was a terrorist.

He did not wear a turban,

nor did he worship Allah,

nor was his skin brown like the sun kissed sands of Arabia.

Yet, my father was a terrorist.

I wonder if he ever saw the face,

the face of true fear,

because that is what he did.

In his mastery of terror,

he brought out my inner-most primality.

It was the same face I saw on other children,

when they did not fear the outside world,

when their biggest nightmare was at home.

And I wanted to scream,

I can see you!

I am you!

We live in the same world,

yet still we are so alone.

I wondered if they ever curled up in a corner of their bed,

when words started to fly like daggers,

and standing in the way of one surely meant your life,

and I wondered if they had ever hoped

if they sunk far enough into their blue sheets,

they’d somehow disappear forever into the fabric.

And it would not be a happy death,

but it would be a safe one,

and all I want is this safety.

And then I realize,

I have no idea what safety is.

What the fuck is safety?!

Safety is a world.

It is a world without terrorists,

yet I do not fear terrorists,

I fear the ones who burst into my room

at 6 am in the morning with death in their eyes,

I fear cold blades they shove upon 5 year old skin

when disobeyed,

I fear not terrorists,

but monsters running through my home

just so I can hear their anguish,

but I can’t

because the silence of mine is so deafeningly loud.

I fear that this fear,

is not fear,

but resignation,

as for me, there is no war on terrorism,

because you can’t fight your own home.