Photos in a Suitcase

Your feet are drenched, smelling of the ocean water.
You carried what you could as you ran for your life.
But the smell of sulphur clings to your lips and nose
as you fled the missiles and soldiers seeking after you
selling everything, sometimes even yourself,
just to get away from it all.

The photos are wrinkled and terribly fragile.
Discolored by age and wear and tear.
Over exposed to the elements of the age
we all find ourselves in.

But we hold them close to our chests
fractured though they are from the wars
within and without.

We hold them close to our chests
fractured though they are
from the wars within and without.

Seeking asylum from an insane asylum
only to be looked upon as an invader
scapegoated, segregated, isolated
barely tolerated, constantly berated.

I can feel my humanity slipping away
as layer and layer of who it is to be me is taken
away from me, or at least I think it's me
I'm talking about.

But at least I have photos in a suitcase.