Seventeen

Dear Planet Earth,

I don’t know what’s going on. Nobody seems to have it together right now. We camped out in the desert last night; the those of us who weren’t sobbing about the loss of our friends or former normal lives spent the twilight hours crouched over the enormous hole left the by ginormous metal snake drill.

I was one of the sobbers. We lost seventeen. Seventeen people, seventeen fellow humans who just days ago were considered “survivors,” a word used to show great strength over horrific obstacles. Today, they are “victims,” a dead word for dead people that only serves to stress the impact of their finality.

I only knew three of them, all soldiers. Chambers. Seka. Jameson. Even typing their names feels as impersonal as reciting dog tags. They’re memories now, and nothing more.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

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