A Tissue Without A Purpose

My heart is bleeding, screaming to be put to ease. Attempts to soothe its pain are fruitless, blaring shrieks from the T.V. echoing in my head.

Mother and 8 kids brutally murdered.

9 year old girl rocks methodically, surrounded by her decapitated family.

Father of 4 cradles his murdered children, prayers rolling effortlessly off his tongue.

I have no time to mourn each victim, too many in too little time. Their bodies stack up on my conscience, each one adding to the heaviness of my eyes. They help the tears form and stain my cheeks, finally succumbing to a dry puddle on my lip. I wipe them away, their life as short as the victims I see before me.

I sigh collectively, feel my body shudder before my face collapses into my hands. I sob uncontrollably. I manage to recite prayers, indecipherable words muffled by the tears.

I collect myself, rub my burning eyes with my wet sleeve. Still, the tears continue, flowing without consent, without warning.

I wipe them away again, but this time, my hands turn a golden red, drenched with warm blood. Tear after tear, I am soaked with the blood of the victims, their fears and worries staining my soul, their lives and deaths scarring my being.

And so my heart still bleeds. As always, it screams for mercy, its cries only drowned out by shrieks of those who have suffered. Its faint beating often stutters, catching its breath, a hiccup in its suffering.

But as quickly as the tears ceased, they begin again, suddenly overcome by grief, forever struck with pain.

Please pray for the innocent victims of Gaza