They sit wrapped with take out
Lip-gloss conversations
Talk about shops and restaurants
Somewhere down the road
A man wears his death as a belt
A man wears my death as a belt
He walks his dog
Bids his daughter a last goodnight
They talk about new ways to stay thin
He talks himself in
And out
I pray in the middle of my work lunch room
He blows himself somewhere down the road
My skin does not stretch over Beirut
Not this time anyway
I smell paper burning
Is that what war smells like when no books are left?
I left.
Followed the shards
Back to the man with blood on his hands
But his hands are not hands anymore
Blood is not read
When it is littered with hunger
His blood plasters the road in place
Places where his skin will never be rubbed off
People robbed of their kin
How could this be anything but sin?
I walk back to work
No soap cleans his image from my mind
Next time around
I won’t hear cries over my headphones
The Fire has not yet reached my books
So I will read.
I will read.
I will read.
About the Author:
Dana Seif is a poet, performer, social activist, graphic designer and aspiring writer. She is currently taking a gap year before pursing a masters in Journalism and Communication. She spends her days finding cats to pet and stories to find/write.
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