March 30, 2014 § Leave a comment
I want to feel your lips pressed against mine
as you moan my name
while I surrender a smirk
after you fall to my neck
and form rose petals above my shoulders,
I want to hear you speak
when it’s late and no one’s awake
when it’s you and me
beneath the trees and the towers
as we look from below
captivated by the canvas above us,
I wish to stay by your side
when you tell me you must leave
for your job or your mother
and I wish to linger as well
when you plead for my company
as I ignore my family.
If it weren’t against tradition
I would plant flowers on you
every time I’d think of your lips
and if it weren’t for our religion
I would sleep beside you
in the most innocent of the phrase
and literal in the sense
to stay by your anatomy
as our souls fly to the sky,
I am reluctant to enunciate these words to you
in worry that you’ll see me
the same no longer
because I hide behind a veil
through my speech and my stance,
the swaying and rustling skirt
when I find myself dancing
steps away from you
as we stroll by the beach,
Now I know this may not concern me
but if I were to speak
and unzip my censored language,
I would tell you
that I crave you
and your mind and your body and your soul
and I want you, all
with your scars and your moles
and the crooked smile
which forms above your chin
as you paint your lips
March 22, 2014 § Leave a comment
we fell in love with; the sand
that we’d throw on one another
when snowballs were not an option
at the pavement
which we sauntered on
when you blindfolded me
and laughed at the passers’ reactions,
in the ocean
when you held my hand
so firmly, under the sea
so no one would notice,
with the clouds
as slow as we did
when we strolled the long way back,
at the city
lit by the sun
burning our faces
the following day,
with the music
which we danced to
as though we were plastered
when all we drank was warm milk
when we hugged
and wouldn’t let go.
we fell in love with
the situations around us,
we fell in love.
March 21, 2014 § Leave a comment
أكتب لكي بخطي الغير مقروء و تعبيراتي المبتدئة كما قد انكمشت لحجمي الصغير عندما كنت طفلةٌ في الرابعة من عمري، و أناضل من أجل العثور على الكلمات الملائمة لوصف مدى تقديري إليكِ بالرغم من علمي عِلماً باتاً بأن جميع الكلمات في كل اللغات لن تقدر على وصف حُبي اللانهائي إليكِ
أشتاق إليكِ يومياً و لكن معاملتي تجاهك و كلماتي الرديئة لا تظهر ذلك ، فإني أتأسف لكل مرة إستيقظت فيها بدون ترتيب فراشي، و لكل كلمة مني أساءت اليك، و كل لحظة أزعجتكِ فيها، فقد تكون تصرفاتي الهوجاء الغير عقلانية محاولة لجلب إنتباهكِ لي كما تفعل حفيدتك، و لكن ذلك ليس مبرِّراً لسلوكي الذي يخذلكِ يوماً تلو الآخر
فإني أتذكر أن من مدة لا تتجاوز السبع سنوات كنا جالسين على الأرض بعد صلاة العصر و نظرتي في عينايَ و قلت “متكبريش و تؤبي زي إخواتك” و عانقتيني بشدة ووعدتك بأن “لا أتغير” و لكن قد مرت عدة سنوات على ذلك و نضجت و كبرت عقليَّاً و جسدياً أيضاً، فكان الوعد خيطاً بيننا و هذا الخيط خفي كالسماء في يومٍ من أيام الصيف، فلا يرى أحد السُّحُبَ إلا ركاب الطائرة و منهم نحن، فالخيط كالرماد لمن ليس مشتركاً في الوعد، لكن الآن ألقي نظرة تلوى الأخرى على نفسي و ألاحظ أني قد خجلتك و مزقت الخيط الخفي بعدما وعدتك أن أحتفظ به و أنا في الثاني عشر من عمري
فالآن أنا في الصف الثاني عشر و قد مر زمن على هذا الوعد و لكني أتذكره تكراراً كل مرة تتصلين بي فيها و لا أجيب على المكالمة، فهي عادة في أبنائك بأجمعهم و هي عادة أجدها طريفة شيء ما و لكنها تقلقكي و هذا شعور لا أريدك أن تشعريه تجاه أي شخص، بالخصوص أنا، و لا أريد أن أجلب إليك أياً من الحزن أو الشفقة أو ما هو ليس من المشاعر المليئة بالسعادة الدائمة
سأنهي هذه الرسالة بذكري أني لوجدت إبرة لتكبح الخيط كما كان و إن عشتُ طوال عمري باحثة عنه لفعلت ذلك، و لكني لا أريد أن أعدك ثانية بعدم تلبية هذا الوعد عائشة نادمة على فقداني لخيط آخر، فالآن إن كان لي وعداً واحداً فوعدي هو أني سأعمل جاهدتاً لرفع رأسك للسماء افتخارا بي، و سأعانقك يوما في المستقبل القريب و عندها ستهمسي بشفتاك في أذناي عن فخرك بي و وفائي بوعدنا
و لكن في الوقت الحاضر أتأسف لك من أعماق قلبي و ألتمس العفو و أرجو ان يقترب هذا المستقبل ﻷني اشتاق لعناقك المليء بالحنان يا حنان، يا أمي العزيزة
March 18, 2014 § Leave a comment
13th of October 2013
His eyes fixated on the ceiling as he lay on his bed with thoughts unraveling in his murmuring speech. A soliloquy, it seemed, since he was alone, and his back rose as his shoulders bent and he sat hunchbacked, with his feet touching one another, mimicking a frog, as he held them and bent towards them as a child. It was his way of spilling the thoughts after he spoke to himself, like a tea pot. After a minute, he rose again with his back upright and stretched his arms to the furthest it can reach as his hands and fingers moved slowly forming a fist which further unknotted into a welcoming form of a hug.
He held his head very firmly, as though imprisoning all of the thoughts he set free into his head once more, and let his hands go. It has begun, another day, another morning, the long routine: once more. All he could think about was what she told him the other day, “I thank you, for your kind gesture. You are why I am the way I am today, I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. Thank you.”, he gave in a comforting grin as his eyes shut for a split second and thought, “You don’t know how wrong you are”.
He recalls the way her eyes glow when she speaks of her love for painting, the way she brushes the colours on the canvas, ever so smoothly, making it seem like the lightest act any one could master. Yet, when he tries, he doesn’t but struggle with holding the brush just as his heart pounds and body trembles when he holds her hand. He can write, he wrote her a poem once, but he was eleven, and back then, “I hate you, you’re a girl” was his form of expressing his appreciation towards her, which was far too untrue and naive. Now, he’s thinking of writing her another one, it has been six years since then, and he only deems it appropriate to do so.
He struggles, once more, “Should I write about her laugh, that I am blessed to listen to, every time I make a fool of myself? Or her hair?” -the red strands which flow from her skull up to her hip, curled as the rides in a water themed park, auburn and brown, some strands are orange and others are a shade darker. He knew why it was her favourite colour, and why she loved the fire; it was like her hair, that which covered her skull, layering her thoughts, her mind, and it was her hair which protected her, or at least, that is what he would assume. She would cover it most of the time, but let it flow below her hat, or cap, or scarf, or beanie, or whatever it was she wore that day, to imprison her thoughts, as he did with his.
They would meet behind open doors, she would skip school and he would take another day off work. Once, her father was about to find out. Alarmed, she broke down crying, “My friend was at the hospital! She was at a mental hospital! I had to go! She was going to kill herself!” when in reality, none of that had happened, and if anyone were to go to a Mental Hospital, it would be her. She got away with the lie, as usual. Only he knew her state of dismay, the pills she had taken, and the amount of times she had slit her wrist; the only person blessed with the ability to calm her while her vision blurred and monsters constantly reappeared vividly beside her, and he would hold her tightly, “Don’t worry, it’s me, I’m here, I’ll never let go. Don’t worry, Habeebty. I am by your side.” She found comfort in his words, despite never believing him, she never believed anyone for that matter, including her own self.
After a hot shower, his mind fixated on what to write about. He dried his hair and wore his glasses and began typing, until he noticed a red light on the side of his screen. It read, “I cannot do this anymore. I hate them. I am going to kill myself.” He felt the diaphragm that defined his chest sink closer to his lungs, and quickly scrolled down to read the following messages, “Fahad. I cannot do this. I am sorry. I am so sorry. I am so so sorry. It is either I kill them or kill myself, and I’d much rather die and get out of this hellhole as soon as possible. They are not letting me go. I hate them. I am so sorry. Tell my little sister that I am sorry. Tell her I traveled. Make up something. You know how to lie. You’ve lied to me many times. Good bye. Good bye. Do not miss me. Hate me. I am horrible. Bye.”
He found his fingers typing away, “ARE YOU THERE!? REPLY TO ME. PLEASE. DON’T DO THIS PLEASE. REPLY TO ME. DON’T LEAVE I BEG YOU PLEASE”, he has never begged anyone for anything before, let alone beg them to reply. Tears were streaming down and flickering below his chin, on to his thighs and neck, it was either he could not feel anything, or that he felt too much. It felt as though he had woken up without staring at the ceiling first, as though all of his thoughts were escaping the prison bars he had confined them in, and others were entering. Chaos. His legs shook up and his fingertips pressed her name on his phone to call her more times than he can recall, he called, and called, and his feet ran, out of the apartment, drove his father’s car, despite not having a license yet, with the target of reaching her.
Thoughts flooded his mind as a tsunami, slow at first, then all at once, fueling the blood in his fuming veins with escalating temperature and open sweat glands.
It was sudden.
He was too late.
18th of March 2014
I am that boy. I have loved you since my eyes glanced at yours, a blink, you looked away, but my glance lasted longer, a stare, until you approached me. I remember the golden ribbon tying your hair, and the black dress you wore, with the red shoes. As beautiful as always. I write this now, certain that your eyes will not see the word which follows this one and the one preceding it. It has been a hundred and fifty six days since you left, and I love you, as I always have, and I will continue loving you, the thought of you is enough for me, it is an ineffable feeling. A lady confessed her love for me a few weeks ago, and she said she was envious towards you because you are all I speak about, just as I would when your body was moving above the soil. She insulted you and I never spoke to her again, and I never will. I cry everyday now, I remember when that used to be your ‘thing’. Maybe we switched places, I don’t know why I haven’t ended my life yet, I want to meet you again, as soon as possible, and that seems to be the only way. But, I feel your presence, beside me, within me, deep inside my chest, where my heart lies. I love you. I write this and I do not think of editing it, you always liked things to be ‘true’, you would always read my drafts, before my final draft, and you’d always praise the drafts. I never understood that, but maybe now I do. I do not feel the need to use any ‘pretty’ words, the very topic that is you is more than enough; your beauty is evident even in your absence. You told me to hate you, but I wonder if you meant to love you, as I did, when I was eleven and wrote you that poem.
I am not going to ask you why you did it, because I know how your father treated you. I only wish you had come to me, and we could have run off with each other, as we would from your teachers and my employers.
I miss lying on the green grass beside you, staring at your eyes as your pupils widen when you speak of what you love, with your hands unraveling as mine do when I wake, and your hair spread carelessly as a pillow for your head to rest on. I remember forcing you to taste my favourite pizza topping, you spit it out and we laughed wholeheartedly. These moments seemed insignificant back then, I would think that the nights when we would open up to each other mattered the most, but it took me twenty seven days after that Sunday to realize that every moment with you was of significance. I write this now and it is as though I am conversing with you, and I dream about you every night. I wrote the poem, and I buried it by the window in your bedroom because I worried that if I placed it by your grave it may fly away before you read it, and if I were to dig it where your grave stone lies It may touch your skeleton, and you have always seemed too delicate for me to touch, unless you would ask me to, and I wish to see you one last time, so I visit you every day. And I wish that you could hear me now, but I know you do when I tell you about my day every time I visit, except now you don’t reply with your voice. I know this all, and maybe if I end my life, I’ll be certain.
I’ll meet you in a few hours.
March 12, 2014 § 1 Comment
I blame myself for flipping the coin
when it did not land on the side we wished for,
and if Fate were existent
my aversion towards it is infinite
for inflicting pain on us
when we did all but ask for it.
I did not choose to be born
or meet you by the lake
or live limited by demands from
the people who surround us.
If it were my choice, I would
choose to be the grains of sand
you lie on,
or the bed sheet
you sleep on,
or the clouds
you watch form,
or the friend
I wish to live without dejection
unless it is by your presence,
and I wish to be everyone
who is blessed to hug you
and kiss your cheek
and sit beside you
but I hate Fate, for introducing us
and deciding to separate us,
though if I were to control fate
I would meet you,
and cry with you
and laugh with you
and go through it all
over and over
again, and before it ends
I would choose otherwise.
because I do not believe in Fate,
I have none to blame
and my mind
which was unaware of deception,
and my fingers
which did not flip the coin
to the side
we both prayed it would,
and for that, I apologize
and I promise
the next time
you will see me grown
with fingers which can motion magic
and a mind able
to deceive an audience
and you, will be proud.