I, the terrorist...

I, the terrorist,
watched the bread break off my brother’s bleeding teeth
He had never tasted blood-flavored bread...

I, the terrorist held my breath,
as the bricks from my kitchen ceiling
hit my forehead…

Yet, I could still stand…

I, the terrorist,
took the rut-filled road to get water
for my suckling infant.

I lost a few fingers
on the way,
to a precision sniper…

I, the terrorist,
dug-up some dirt water
with what was left of my stubs,
and tried
to nurse my wailing one,
as he lay in the arms
of the still-warm
body of his departed mother…

I, the terrorist, hated
that my newborn had to taste
blood-stained water;
I hated that
he now had no milk
the scarlet stuff slowly bubbling on his lips…

Then, I the terrorist,
realized
that he,
like his mother,
like my brother,
and every other terrorist
who had sat for a meal
at that fractured kitchen table
had now
stopped feeding too…

Note: Inspired by a survivor of the Gaza massacre, sitting in what remained of his home with what looked like a fingerless bleeding hand...