The Comfort of Not Knowing

By Breckyn Forcey

There’s a kind of power

In not having to know. 

A luxury

In ignorance

When the fire isn’t burning 

Your house.

Some people walk through the world

With blindfolds so soft

They call them pillows. 

They sip news headlines

Like tea,

Lukewarm,

Sweetened,

Distant.

As if grief

Tastes better

When it’s someone else’s. 

They scroll past suffering

Like it’s an ad

They didn’t click on.

Mute the volume

On injustice

Like it’s a podcast

They never subscribed to.

They call it peace.

But it’s just insulation.

It’s privilege

Wrapped in bubble wrap,

Labeled “not my problem.”

It’s the mother

Who says racism ended

When Obama got elected.

It’s the neighbor

Who thinks the homeless man

Should “just get a job.”

It’s the coworker 

Who says

“I don’t get political.”

But surviving 

Is political

When your existence

Is debated

Like policy.

They don’t know

What it’s like

To memorize exits

In public spaces

Because you saw one too many

Headlines that started

With “Another mass shooting.”

They don’t know

Because they don’t have to.

That’s the thing about privilege,

It doesn’t mean

You’re evil.

It means

You’re comfortable enough

To ignore the heat

While the rest of us

Are burning.

They say

“It’s too much.”

“I can’t watch that video.”

“It’s too depressing.”

But for some of us,

It’s not a video.

It's Tuesday.

It’s the corner store.

It’s a cousin

We buried

Before their twenty-first birthday.

Ignorance

Is not innocence.

It’s participation.

Silence

Is not neutral.

It’s permission.

You can’t claim

To love the world

And close your eyes

Every time it cries. 

So no,

I will not

Make it easier for you.

I will not whisper

What needs to be screamed.

If the truth

Makes you uncomfortable,

Good.

It’s meant to. 

Growth was never supposed

To feel like safety.

I want you to look. 

I want you to see

The systems

You benefit from

And the bodies

They bury.

I want you

To feel the weight

You were born without

And ask yourself

Why. 

Because we are tired

Of carrying the truth

While others sleep through it.

Tired

Of explaining the fire

To people

Who keep asking

Why the smoke smells like ash. 

Tired

Of living under systems 

Built by people

Who would rather forget

Than fix.

But still,

We speak.

We testify.

We write poems

On billboards

They tried to paint over.

We make noise

So loud

You can’t scroll past it anymore.

We are not here

To be polite.

We are here

To wake you up.

And we

Are not done

Rising.