Private Thoughts of a Depressed Teen

Twenty-five.

Stories written in blood

We are the victims.
We are the ones going about our every day lives.
We are the ones that went to work.
We are the ones that went to a meeting.
We are the ones that had a giant X painted across us in red.

We are the fallen.
We are the ones that did not survive.
We are the ones killed on impact.
We are the ones who jumped rather than burn.
We are the ones crushed or suffocated by debris.
We are the ones dying today from the inhalation years ago.

We are the responders.
We are the ones that answered the call.
We are the ones ready to rescue and help survivors.
We are the ones that tended to the dead and dying.
We are the ones that risked and laid down our lives to save others.

We are the survivors.
We are the ones that were trapped then found.
We are the ones that were burned and broken yet lived.
We are the ones that thought we would not make it.
We are the ones that were saved.

We are the families.
We are the ones that mourn those gone.
We are the ones that thank the responders that pulled our loved ones from the wreckage.
We are the ones watching from home as this horror unfolds anguished but thankful our loved ones are safe.
We are the left behind.

We are the next generation.
We are the ones too young to remember that day.
We are the ones that did not live through the horror.
We are the ones that learn about it in school.
We are the ones that forgot.