All that is left of us

are whispers of blood,

of cries of mercy,

of threats

of you

and the man knocking on the door.

We think there is more;

ashes, photographs, memories, but

in reality, they’re returned,

burned,

forgotten,

and the cycle repeats.

Every time we end up fading away,

despite our cries,

despite our papers,

despite being human

and having nothing to our names.

Done, we threw our humanity away

the moment we saw the grass on the other side.