I have only ever been shot at in my home country. I have only ever witnessed -in person- people shoot each other in my country. I have only hidden from gunfire in my country.
I have seen towns washed out, flooded, gone so many times. I have seen cities crumpled, rubble in the streets, and been driven through flames that consume everything in sight.
I have seen the sick, known the sick -the infected, chronic, physically and/or mentally ill- that die because of their illness, in my country.
I have lived in houses with rotted floors and sagging walls. I have slept in beds infested, in homes under siege.
I have lived in towns where no one asks why the sonic booms rattle windows anymore. Went to school, passing by vehicles made for war. I have smelt the sickly sweet smell of forbidden labs, the fecund savor of rotten bodies.
This is not poetry. This is not prose.
This is the reality.













