Battles of the Soul.

I exist in the in-between Netherlands of identity and politics. The fucking shit hole everyone decides to fight their wars on. No one cares about the scars places on our skin. Sometimes people like to call us a bridge, but no one stays with the bridge. People pass by it, noticing the beautiful scenery before heading back to land. Then on land many just see an eye sour blocking their view. Leaving me, and all like me, to face the winds that ride between the lands completely exposed.

People like me, don’t exist. You know when I search “Arab Jew” or “Iraqi Jew” or even Mizrahi (term used in Israel) on Tumblr or WordPress NOTHING comes up. We’re erasing ourselves. Our books are not read. We are infrastructure. Admitted realities of connection across vicious wars. Just as quickly forgotten after excitedly remembered. Deleted for something better, or maybe just easier.

How can my pieces fit together without fighting? At constant war with one another. The bombs and verbal harassment I hear, read, and see, manifest as violent shakes that transport me to the real battlefield. This here battle is invisible, no one can see the scars excepts those on my skin from razor and fire. It doesn’t make the news, my pain, or any American who’s heritage is degraded by our government policies. The fight we wage within our own souls so to not let any of our pieces kill each other.

The missiles drive into my heart, making it stop with lightning fast nano precision. The shrapnel rattles my bones turning a stroll into a trained, life affirming skill of circus tightrope. The tires of tanks stamp my chest down, killing seeds of grass gasping for just one breath.

I can feel the hate inside my body BOMB BLAST! The rattling of artillery shooting into a child on the street, a man trying to change the world even as he picks up a gun. The hate and the dream of us versus them. The division of people, ideas, culture – needing a winner! Squashing the other to bits.

Bullets are the aftermath when all other attempts of destruction have failed. In person assault rains down as marines from the helicopters fall to the ground shooting my stomach open and letting the gathered nutrition flow out. Then nausea. The last steps of death come out as bodily fluids – the expulsion of self and soul. Anger from the fiery burning pits of the devil, an evil you so wish me to be, ride out to fulfill your expectations. I kill my own soul when I kill you. They all seem to have a death wish.

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