Stripped

They spoke to me in a language we shared, but I wasn’t one of them.

They made me wear a badge, so they would know I’m different.

They broke into my home, but it looked like every other.

They made me move into ghettos, so I would be with my kind.

They moved me onto trains, but I wasn’t cattle.

They shaved my head, so I wouldn’t recognize myself.

They engraved a number onto my skin, but I had a name.

They worked me in fields, so they could continue the war.

They took my food, but I had faith.

They shot my family, so I stopped believing.

They took me to showers, but I already had nothing.

They gassed me, because I was different.