Afterwards, the names of the dead circle the city like vultures, searching for scraps of themselves.
We do not invent pain, we are invented by it. Identity is a kind of resignation. The inability to imagine oneself in another's place.
Purple and silent, the bruises blossom in every house.
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3 comments:
It is beautiful and well thought out
the intense depth of the first statement pains me, and in doing so, creates a part of me I wouldn't have thought existed.
Well written, though it's third part that made me pause.
"We do not invent pain, we are invented by it. Identity is a kind of resignation. The inability to imagine oneself in another's place."
~N.
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