You’re crying because he stopped texting.
Gaza is crying
because her little brother didn’t come back from the bakery.

You say your heart is shattered.
Gaza’s father held his daughter’s pieces
in both hands
and said nothing.
There are no words when your child dies warm.

You complain about the heat.
Gaza is burning.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
With bodies they can’t put out
because the water is gone.

You don’t like loud noises.
Gaza counts silence like blessings.
Silence means bombs are reloading,
not falling.

You’re sad you weren’t invited to the party.
Gaza didn’t get to plan her sister’s birthday.
She planned her funeral instead.
The same dress.
Different occasion.

You hate hospitals.
Gaza lives in them
on the floor,
under candlelight,
where doctors use bare hands
because tools ran out before the children did.

You’re annoyed the power went out for ten minutes.
Gaza hasn’t seen light in weeks.
They read prayers off their palms
because the Qur’an turned to ash.

You want peace and quiet.
Gaza begs God
for just one night
where the walls don’t shake
like they’re screaming.

You said, “The world’s unfair.”
Gaza agrees —
but says it with no tongue,
no teeth,
no face left to speak.

You lit a candle for ambiance.
Gaza lights one
because the bodies
have to be found
before sunrise.

And still
Gaza sings.
Not lullabies.
But names.
A list of souls
carved into memory
because graves
are running out.