You can see my bloody, broken body,

Just what's left of my shell,

In the newspapers so long as I remain

A "she," "the victim," or Jane Doe.

They don't write that my son's name is Bobby,

That my name is Raquel

Or that my man and I just got engaged

Because that's too much for you to know.

You can gawk and stare at your TV

And follow the trial and news story,

But you don't really want to get to know me,

Or hear that my name is Cory

That every night Mommy read me "What I Saw on Mulberry Street"

And then tucked me into bed with my dinosaur, Beau

No, that's too much for you to know.

You'd rather I was a no one,

A face on a paper or screen,

When really I'm a person.

No matter what happens, I'm me.

But, regardless of how many times

I try to tell you so

I'm beginning to realize

That it's too much for you to know.


I hope that this made sense. Inspired by a newspaper article I read and written while listening to Kenny Chesney's "Dancin' For the Groceries." Please review! Thanks!:)