I am not the infant at the midnight showing of The Dark Knight Rises,
machine gun fire shadows ricocheting off my alabaster forehead.
I am not the toddler bawling at a Pink concert, my eardrum-rattled wail,
flailing against the swell of screaming t-shirts.
I am not the three-legged dog who limped from the Mall of Americas
parking lot to Ocala, Florida.
I am not the person handing out thimblefuls of soup samples, in the shadow
of the North Tower at 8:45 a.m.
I am not the six-year old with my face five inches from a waiting room TV
that blares details of a mother who suffocated her baby daughter,
nor am I the baby daughter’s body stuffed into a suitcase
and buried in the backyard.
I am the person who placed my cursor over the next story