In a way, I think my mother is the ICC and father the ICJ both complicit, both at front play. And my brother is the miniature Israel. Or am I hysteric? But they keep providing him with all the tools and weapons, buying him shields to unsee my horrors to kill my dreams, to barren my talents, to occupy my mind, and to steal my rest. Am I hallucinating? When I vent to them and cry out, they soothingly stroke my hair and lay bare lies thumping aloud, while my truth stands stout. “We are doing our best at the hour. We do call him out. We dismiss his aggression. We call for an end to this useless expansion. The house is ours, and you are so the honorary guest so live like the fly in his glass.” But they can’t take their stance any farther than words from the mouth. So he counts his leftover rounds. They shape his atrocities as minor moral incompetence how ridiculous they sound. While I shrink from river to sea, just to survive another battleground. And should I live, should my hope persist they will come, all hovering their passes, claiming it was them, the saviors, holding my gown. But my grudges are little, my cause is nothing, and I dare not compare the ideas drawn in an idle kitchen.