Whats left of genocide

Lots of us have been raised in remembrance of such events, all around the world I've seen this ambiguous feeling repeat itself across generations And am one of the children of those crimes

Letters have a strange power to them.
I'd feel it lurking from the family's legacy
Letters I'd read at school, to bring awareness
It was too short of a letter to be felt as it is, I thought

Yet I remembered the silence, heavier and so grave
It fell down on all of us, each time- like clockwork
Like those minutes of silence they ask for when tragedy hits
You don't really get it but it's not like one could ask
You don't really feel anything but you hear yourself blink

It's full of hypocrisy, such tension

Yet I knew all the names and faces,
Yet no one dared to believe any of it
That's probably part of why I never got close to anyone after that
And did so much to have something, anything to tell that felt real

Things you live through feel so distant and fuzzy
But it was a vicious circle, my mind stayed just as blurry
Like I never did that in the first place
At the same time I never left
It's creepy, you feel like somebody else
Always trying to find out who is the real one
Both, it must be both, you know
It always is, I used to firmly believe in that

Now I know some things don't compare
It doesn't even matter
Maybe it was bad of me to think so little of it
But I didn't know that
It's just not the point, how bad it is, to whom
What got fucked up stays so until the next one
But we can take that many times, we can heal in between

It's nothing like horror, it's not God dooming on our people
Not anymore, at least
Nothing but low blows, they're all gone for good
You have to learn to take a hit right, why didn't you do that in the first place?

Author's Note

It's supposed to be a retranscription of a monologue, as bare as possible with very little addition to the initial tone