did you ever

did you ever hear a sound?
that turned your home into a battlefield,
throughout the night.

did you ever run to the shelters?
sirens and screaming,
certain,
that bravery alone would move your body.

did you ever count without numbers?
relying on your breath to count them for you,
measuring the time between now
and another explosion.

did you ever think about time?
like the way you think about water
when you’re running out of it.

did you ever look at the sky?
and realize that the light wasn’t joy,
but instead a sign that someone was about to leave this sacred world.

did you ever run?
wearing whatever your shaky hands could put on,
realizing how quickly comfort becomes irrelevant
and how fast your body learns
what to do?

did you ever pray?
to your loved one, who is already gone,
not because you are faithful,
but because you had no other choice.

did you ever feel a country?
hold you in its arms,
filling you with love and the urge to stay strong.

did you ever realize that i am not telling a story
but instead
recounting memories,
memories that i refuse to loosen my grip on,
memories that cut straight through me
before i knew how to brace for them.

some people hear sirens
and return to sleep.
other people sail through oceans and storms,
and are told to be quieter about what they endured.

but i carry it anyway—
the counting, the running, the prayers,
the way a country can feel like a body,
that holds you up when your own almost gives out.

you never asked about my story.

so i’m telling you.