“For the dead and the living, we must bear witness.”

― Elie Wiesel

 

A commonplace saying presides, ‘what you don’t know can’t hurt you.’

A first world shield of sorts; A mother cautioning an inquisitive child,

“Don’t ask too many questions, dear.”

Nine and naive, innocence in the crisp crease of my collar,

unassuming.

A fine hair on my head, not a tear shed from a grieving eye, instead,

the life of a girl of hardly five pried asunder,

a tragic fire in a hidden sweatshop in Bangladesh,

Her blood sewn into my white shirt invisible to me.

I am protected by what I don’t know,

white shirt, suddenly too tight, reveals specks of red.

I wear blood on my sleeves.

A formerly coveted bar of chocolate closes my throat,

as I taste the pain of those far away in a land called Ghana,

tied up in chains and whipped like dogs, suddenly not-so-far away.

I eat blood and tears of the helpless.

Wrapped in a shell of protection and justice, my arms are sheathed in their scars, my teeth stained with their plight.

My eyes come into focus.

Then the knife drops, heart seared with unfairness,

hands clean despite slavery,

Virtuous despite molestation,

Alive despite genocide,

Healthy despite starvation.

Unspoken, a Rule in the air we breathe

Our fragile hearts, unable to face

the devastation, turn to another world, holding onto the

sweet nectar of ignorance, a comfort.

 

I shed my cloth, the blood-stained shirt. My heart carved into with the pain felt not by me.

I grasp the livery of my friends, of my foes,

desperate hands clutching, shoving blindly

Grasping onto the tattered vestiges of what

is so much desired,

Comfort.

 

I lose the battle. I am only heard by those who want to hear me.

 

They lose the war. They are only felt by those who want to feel them.

 

I am alone.

in a fight that never before hurt me