<p><strong>There is a war they cannot see.</strong></p><p><strong>Not on battlefields or borders,</strong></p><p><strong>But inside the caverns of my chest—</strong></p><p><strong>Deep, quiet, and endlessly burning.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>I wake each day with grief clinging to my skin,</strong></p><p><strong>With rage tucked beneath my ribs,</strong></p><p><strong>With sorrow trailing behind my steps like a shadow</strong></p><p><strong>That doesn’t disappear when the sun rises.</strong></p><p><strong>I laugh, sometimes—</strong></p><p><strong>But it catches in my throat.</strong></p><p><strong>Not because joy isn’t real,</strong></p><p><strong>But because guilt sits behind it,</strong></p><p><strong>asking,</strong></p><p><strong>“How can you smile when they are burying their children in pieces?”</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>I carry the war in me.</strong></p><p><strong>It lives in my blood,</strong></p><p><strong>In my fingertips,</strong></p><p><strong>In the way I cannot look away,</strong></p><p><strong>Even when I want to.</strong></p><p><strong>Even when my spirit begs for pause.</strong></p><p><strong>Because somewhere in Gaza,</strong></p><p><strong>A mother is calling out the names of her children,</strong></p><p><strong>But no one answers.</strong></p><p><strong>Because somewhere in Rafah,</strong></p><p><strong>A child is learning what terror sounds like</strong></p><p><strong>before learning how to spell their name.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>And I—</strong></p><p><strong>I sit miles away, oceans away,</strong></p><p><strong>Scrolling through stories soaked in dust and blood,</strong></p><p><strong>Watching lives unravel in real time.</strong></p><p><strong>Helpless.</strong></p><p><strong>Angry.</strong></p><p><strong>Shattered.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>People talk of trauma</strong></p><p><strong>As something personal,</strong></p><p><strong>As something you own—</strong></p><p><strong>But I am learning,</strong></p><p><strong>That some traumas are collective.</strong></p><p><strong>Some wounds stretch across continents,</strong></p><p><strong>Across cultures,</strong></p><p><strong>Across language,</strong></p><p><strong>And still—</strong></p><p><strong>They bleed the same.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>I carry this war in silence,</strong></p><p><strong>Because when I speak,</strong></p><p><strong>Some call it politics.</strong></p><p><strong>As if genocide is a debate.</strong></p><p><strong>As if ethnic cleansing is a headline to skim past.</strong></p><p><strong>As if the cries of a people</strong></p><p><strong>Can be muted by indifference,</strong></p><p><strong>Or buried beneath propaganda.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>I scream inwardly,</strong></p><p><strong>So loud my soul trembles,</strong></p><p><strong>But outwardly,</strong></p><p><strong>I whisper.</strong></p><p><strong>I write.</strong></p><p><strong>I weep.</strong></p><p><strong>Because I don’t know what else to do</strong></p><p><strong>When the world keeps spinning</strong></p><p><strong>As if bones aren’t breaking beneath the rubble.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>I watch leaders offer nothing but lies,</strong></p><p><strong>I see governments turn their backs,</strong></p><p><strong>I witness journalists silenced,</strong></p><p><strong>Truths erased,</strong></p><p><strong>And all the while,</strong></p><p><strong>The bombs don’t pause.</strong></p><p><strong>The skies don’t clear.</strong></p><p><strong>The children don’t come back.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>How do you hold this kind of ache</strong></p><p><strong>and not collapse?</strong></p><p><strong>How do you witness genocide</strong></p><p><strong>and still go to work,</strong></p><p><strong>Still eat dinner,</strong></p><p><strong>Still reply “I’m fine” when asked?</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>Inside, I am not fine.</strong></p><p><strong>I am falling apart</strong></p><p><strong>For people I’ve never met,</strong></p><p><strong>But feel tied to—</strong></p><p><strong>By justice,</strong></p><p><strong>By humanity,</strong></p><p><strong>By the simple truth,</strong></p><p><strong>That no one deserves to die in silence.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>This war has made a home in me.</strong></p><p><strong>It’s in the shaking hands</strong></p><p><strong>When I read the news.</strong></p><p><strong>In the clenched jaw</strong></p><p><strong>When someone says,</strong></p><p><strong>“It’s complicated,”</strong></p><p><strong>As if murder is ever unclear.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>It’s in the prayers I mutter at 3AM,</strong></p><p><strong>Half-hope,</strong></p><p><strong>Half-plea,</strong></p><p><strong>Asking God if He still hears the cries</strong></p><p><strong>From shattered mosques,</strong></p><p><strong>From hospitals turned graveyards,</strong></p><p><strong>From broken lullabies that never got to end.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>And yet,</strong></p><p><strong>Amid this despair,</strong></p><p><strong>A part of me still resists.</strong></p><p><strong>Still believes.</strong></p><p><strong>Still dares to hope—</strong></p><p><strong>Because to give up now,</strong></p><p><strong>Would be betrayal.</strong></p><p><strong>Because if I abandon hope,</strong></p><p><strong>Who holds it for them?</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>So I carry the war in me—</strong></p><p><strong>Not as defeat,</strong></p><p><strong>But as fire.</strong></p><p><strong>Not as ruin,</strong></p><p><strong>But as reason.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>I will not forget.</strong></p><p><strong>I will not grow numb.</strong></p><p><strong>I will not silence my heart,</strong></p><p><strong>To fit the comfort of the ignorant.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>This pain,</strong></p><p><strong>Is proof that I’m alive,</strong></p><p><strong>That my humanity still breathes,</strong></p><p><strong>That even across oceans,</strong></p><p><strong>Our souls are bound</strong></p><p><strong>By the need to love,</strong></p><p><strong>To protect,</strong></p><p><strong>To fight for the voiceless.</strong></p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>I carry the war in me</strong></p><p><strong>Because they have no choice but to live it.</strong></p><p><strong>Because the leas</strong></p><p><strong>t I can do is feel it,</strong></p><p><strong>Hold it,</strong></p><p><strong>Amplify it—</strong></p><p><strong>Until the world has no choice but to see.</strong></p><p><strong>Until justice is not a dream,</strong></p><p><strong>But a debt finally paid.</strong></p>
I Carry the War in Me : The Second Chapter
By
Youthscrew Art
•
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