Gaza

Fire burns against our skin like the flames that consumed Rome as Nero played his fiddle.

The stench of death lingers longer than the sweet sugary smell of knafeh.

Burnt bread and beans are all I’ve tasted this week and I long for the tartness of fresh berries.

I hear the children in the tents around me crying for food that their mothers struggle to find, starving themselves to feed their babies.

I trace my fingers in the dirt to draw a future for myself, but before I can finish an explosion erases my drawing…. And takes me with it.