The Heart of the World is Bleeding

The heart of the world is bleeding. And all the surgeons in the world can’t stop it. There’s that fear of turning on the TV, reading the news, logging onto Facebook. That word being thrown around like it was missed for the last 10 years. Texts and whereabouts sent with trembling fingers. Videos capturing what they think is the truth. That I’m nauseous to watch.

The truth, the truth, where are you? Where is it?

Journalism still has its edge. Knives are cutting, and cut again. Words can be daggers too. My hands are bleeding.

Eyes are bleeding. Children are feeding like leeches on lies. Where is the sustenance?

We tell ourselves it won’t be as bad as last time. Isn’t it worse?

Hearts are split in half across borders. Friends are being mistaken for enemies, oh, and vice versa. Little do I know over here in America, pain incinerates distance, is incinerated by distance. Cars are ramming into throats.

Israel, sometimes it feels like what can we do. What is there to do? Millions of death wishes breathing. The ground up isn’t strong enough if the earth isn’t strong.

Optimism gets harder the more closed the crossings. Feet crossing and words crossing and blades crossing.

Not enough words crossing.

Who is crying?

You don’t have to have eyes to see that it’s everyone. Everyone not bleary-eyed dignifying death.

It’s twisted, these papers, newscasters lie. To whom does this give peace of mind?

Pieces, a puzzle, this landscape, no matter how it’s chopped, we can’t seem to screw it together.

Belief is in the foreground, okay, then whom is in the background?

What do we believe? To what end?

What waves over Palestine?

The world is throwing up her hands in shame, perhaps not enough. For what are we shameful? Wouldn’t we rather be proud?

Some are proud, and lie dying. Some are proud, and die lying.

Drop the knives, cap the guns, there’s no way this is worth it.

For once it’s not rockets falling but surgical gloves.

No doctor in sight, only gashes.

How can I convince you not to bleed to death?

How can I slice your incisions?

Not up to me, but isn’t it?

I thought bloodletting was a thing of the past. My throat clenches at the thought.

About the Author
Atara Vogelstein is a recent graduate of the Gallatin School of Individualized Study at New York University, where she concentrated in Creative Writing, Drama, and Psychology. She is currently pursuing her Master's in Drama Therapy at NYU's Steinhardt School of Culture, Education, and Human Development.
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