Ebola in Liberia

My heart skips a beat.
My fingers curl.
And somewhere between
Frightened awe and
An apathetic sustenance of disbelief,

I forget to be grateful.

There is a reality somewhere.
Somewhere so far
That it doesn’t touch
This secretly
Hypochondriac heart of mine.

I am tired of the stereotypes.
Tired of these broken
Obviously poor
Lives I see.

Somehow everything else is bigger.

I worry about the next
Amidst debauchery,
And some first world
City-bread idea of survival.

I must be heartless.

Or this must be some parallel reality.
These dark, misinterpreted skins
Must be wild.

I am tired of the stereotypes.

I try to care.
I try to feel beyond the selfish shiver that
Strikes through me,
And so I distance myself more from the offing.

I believe I am the nicer human
And then I choke on my uncaring.

I am tired of the stereotypes.
But I can’t help myself.

Somewhere you are a reality.
While here I am.
Caught between my
Dreams and your truth
Forcing its way through my world
In body bags and
Lost children I will never meet.

I am tired of the stereotype.
And yet I want to believe you don’t exist.

You are so far away
And yet. . .
We both need saving.

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