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You Killed

You killed my mother. You killed my father: My uncles and my aunts. You killed my grandmother and my grandfather: My cousins, their wives: My father’s sisters, their husbands. You killed me within.

You killed my beloved, my husband, my love. You killed love.

You killed the flower within me.

You dried up the rain. You drained the water. I’m dried up.

You rooted out the tree of life our orphaned arms had nourished within us.

You cut the climbers we’d raised under each other’s light, each other’s shadow.

You destroyed the road along which we could never have walked without being united.

My days, my nights.

You imprisoned my breath.

You sewed my lips together.

My nails no longer grow.

You froze the lakes. You froze my blood.

My joy, my hope.

You froze me within.

You sucked out my soul.

You stole my old age.

My cheeks.

My cheeks hurt.

What has my Hrant2 done to you?

You killed. You killed me too.

2 Hrank Dink, a Turkish-Armenian journalist assassinated on 19 January 2007