Voiceless by Fatma AlSumaiti

It’s cold today.
Yesterday was cold, too.
Splinters are a daily ritual.
Blisters always come through. 

The nice lady always comes around.
Tuesdays were her days.
She was sad today, but we smiled at each other.
My children are starving, I was sad too.

I told my 2 year old to stop crying.
I gently stroked his hair,
as the sweet doctor removed shrapnel from his left thigh.
Syria is crying, too. Shrapnel is what we call her now.

Father told me to act like a man.
Brother told me to stop wearing skinny jeans.
Clothes should be stitched not ripped, he said.
What about my soul? Who’s going to stich it back together?

In a tornado my thoughts are whirling.
Pills help keep me grounded.
Colors slowly seep their way out,
and I can’t seem to pull through.

-ments of souls dissolve in silence.
They tried crying,
they tried bleeding, too.
The red was too loud,
the cries were bright.
They dissolved in silence,
and we said nothing, too.

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