This heart, come here. Come.
You, children pushed from your homes, learned hunger like a new language, beaten, taken, buried, erased before your names could settle into the world.
come.
I don’t know what else to do but sit with it.
I cannot understand it.
I cannot explain it.
Just sit inside it.
Because it doesn’t stop.
It doesn’t pause long enough for grief to even form properly.
A child suffers somewhere
and before the echo finishes, another place is already burning.
Gaza.
Yemen.
Sudan.
Syria
Lebanon
Congo
again, always again, even when they say it’s “over.”
And the world…
It adjusts its eyes.
Looks, then softens it, renames it, files it away.
Calls it complicated.
Calls it unfortunate.
Calls it necessary.
Calls it natural.
And moves. On.
But I can’t move past it.
It sits in the chest, something unfinished, something refusing to be digested.
Like the body knows a truth while mind keeps trying to escape
This isn’t distant.
This isn’t abstract to me.
This is happening to humans who wake up the same way anyone does
and then don’t get to finish the day.
So come here.
Not to be saved. I can’t save you. You may one day read this yourself after I am long gone..
I don't know you and you don't know me.
Yet I am holding you somewhere that doesn’t deny you.
You are real to me.
And maybe that’s where it begins.
refusing to look away, even when looking breaks something in you. Refusing, accepting, reaching to those who didn't survive and those who will.. and holding them in your heart.
come.
I don’t know what else to do but sit with it.
I cannot understand it.
I cannot explain it.
Just sit inside it.
Because it doesn’t stop.
It doesn’t pause long enough for grief to even form properly.
A child suffers somewhere
and before the echo finishes, another place is already burning.
Gaza.
Yemen.
Sudan.
Syria
Lebanon
Congo
again, always again, even when they say it’s “over.”
And the world…
It adjusts its eyes.
Looks, then softens it, renames it, files it away.
Calls it complicated.
Calls it unfortunate.
Calls it necessary.
Calls it natural.
And moves. On.
But I can’t move past it.
It sits in the chest, something unfinished, something refusing to be digested.
Like the body knows a truth while mind keeps trying to escape
This isn’t distant.
This isn’t abstract to me.
This is happening to humans who wake up the same way anyone does
and then don’t get to finish the day.
So come here.
Not to be saved. I can’t save you. You may one day read this yourself after I am long gone..
I don't know you and you don't know me.
Yet I am holding you somewhere that doesn’t deny you.
You are real to me.
And maybe that’s where it begins.
refusing to look away, even when looking breaks something in you. Refusing, accepting, reaching to those who didn't survive and those who will.. and holding them in your heart.




