They Call Me Collateral

By Amber Vlangas

They call me collateral,
secondary, incidental, the damage beside the damage -
but this harm is oh so real.
Not a side effect, not background noise,
but a wound that bleeds quietly
through kitchen tables,
school mornings,
the whispers that follow me home.

They call me collateral,
unintended damage,
as if my love,
my children,
my ache of my body and mind
are just statistics
scribbled in the margins of bad policy.

But I live inside this rupture,
inside the shattering silence
when the door slammed shut,
due process thrown away,
and the state swallowed you whole.

Yes, I believe in accountability.
I believe in owning harm,
in repairing and making amends,
in holding one another accountable - human to human.

But cages are not accountability,
they are disproportionality carved in steel,
dehumanization dressed up as justice.
And no matter how you, or I, or anyone
holds up their end of the bargain
after a sentence is served,
the punishment lingers,
shadowing every single step.

I have watched your spirit
fractured by solitary walls,
your laughter stolen by cages,
your freedom traded for surveillance
that stalks our every move.

You are here,
and yet pieces of you
are locked away,
catalogued, monitored,
branded by a registry
that devours us all.

They call me collateral,
but I am here -
the uncounted cost.
I carry the mark too,
in whispered questions,
in opportunities that vanish,
in neighborhoods that watch
but never see.

And still, I hold you.
Still, I rage.
Still, I grieve for what’s been taken,
the husband beside me
Whose not the same,
the future rewritten
without my consent.

Collateral?
No.
I am witness.
I am partner.
I am family.
I am the voice that says:
the harm of the system is not a footnote,
it is the story,
and dammit we are gonna tell it.