What I need, right now,
is to not feel.
Or, if I must feel:
to feel supported;
safe,
and loved.
Even as I wrote those words,
especially as I write those words,
I have to ask:
who am I?
What is my situation,
while children are frightened,
in tunnels without
their Ima and Abba,
even as bombs fall
on the others?
Crushingly,
the answer arrives.
I am no one.
Even suffering
has escaped me.
The subjective,
my subjective,
has been rendered
as if into
nothing.
