Lines That Don’t Rhyme: Reflections of A Person Not From Gaza pt.5

Olive-colored skin is now gray.
Under rubble.
Rocks of the house, the house made home to the child, woman, man, grandma, grandpa, cousin, everyone under the olive-colored skin.
Olive-colored skin is now red.
In blood.
Blood that was circulated from heart to lungs to heart to body to heart now on the outside.
Olive-colored skin is no longer capable of being identified.
Identification that was asked for on a border to home.
Olive-colored skin is what is hated.
Hated for the mere fact.
Lips curled into a smile.
A smile is a frown…teeth clenching.
A religious war? Your own holy jihad that you despise?
I don’t care. I don’t want to hear it. I can’t hear it.
Throats are dry.
Eyes are tired.
Will it end?
Olive-colored skin is not gray, not red, and not unidentifiable. It is olive-colored skin.

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