Solidarity

To open; physical, like ripping. A puckered tearing. The heart is a thick muscle; impenetrable if need be. It seeks warmth and the world is cold. Dead bodies, dead people, dead children, dead families, death. Dead and still hearts; death. How your eyes remain so dry; death. When a bomb explodes shrapnel, it still takes a person time to die – to bleed and life leeching towards ether. And shock, I suppose, is a painkiller. And shock, I suppose, is an anesthetic. And shock, I suppose. And shock, I suppose. These pictures are bleeding but I can’t smell it; I want to – the sick tang. I want to feel it – a sharp pain. Distance is a removal is lost responsibility and apathy is numb. I can look at pictures of dead children all day. My eyes burn with emptiness and exposed salt. A gag reflex. Nothing comes out. It festers. A nausea. I want to open my heart up. I want to expose. It is a physical thing to open to the world – to spread ribcage and tear muscle apart to bare meaty flesh like a Valentine to strangers halfway across the globe. With no way to give that. I reach inside. I have nothing to give. What do I give? So it sits there, festering and breeding anger. My arms aren’t wide enough to hold this – not strong enough to fix it. My skills are not developed enough to help. I am  useless. All I have is this heart. So I keep poking at it, hoping it’ll do something. I keep opening new wounds. Like, solidarity? What use? And people are still dying. But at least I can cry now. At least I can cry now. At least I can cry now. At least I can cry.

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