queen of faff

Former secret writer. This is my rehab.


1 Comment

Peshawar

My arms are lucky.

The small body I hold is warm, not cold.

Limp, with the right kind of sleep.

 

My heart is forgetting how to beat.

 

In a world I don’t know

Day breaks with mourning and 132 empty beds.

Sons and daughters, slaughtered.

Bullets lodged in bones that are not yet grown.

 

Faceless men seek retaliation like prizes,

So the death toll rises

And the white stone steps run red.

 

My heart is lucky.

It loves this small body, which is not cold, but warm.

A mother’s balm.

She twitches as she dreams.

 

My heart is forgetting how to beat.

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