First they came for the Muslims, and I did not speak out
-I was not Muslim

Then they came for the refugees, and I did not speak out
-I was not a refugee

Then they came for me- and there was no one left to speak for me.

Is it wrong
To want to be alone
In your own solitude
Doing whatever
Soothes your soul?

I must tell stories again,
Of people I haven't met,
Of hearts I haven't felt.
I must let my soul out,
To wander into another pair of eyes,
Into veins that throb to another heart.
Weary I am of my one narrative,
I must tell stories again.
I must know what it means
To be more than me.

Do you mean the ones who live on the other side?
Clear across the ocean, two miles in from the tide?

The ones that live with little means or the ones that live like we were meant to?
That work, play, stress, fear, and cry, just like we do?

The men who were created from the earth and the women from Adam's rib?
The ones who fall asleep staring at the same galaxies wondering if we're all there is?

Do you mean the ones in straw houses near dirt roads?
That learn how to survive on the land and wear the clothes that they sew?

Others and me,
I'm sorry, pardon me... I'm just slightly confused
Because when I think of them, I think of me
I can't separate the two.

you are
furthest
from the

lightwomb,

but skinlit kisses
still whisper
ghostfuls of

yes

into your
crowded head.