If you wear a hijab, niqab or even burqa, don’t expect me to take you seriously if you tell me how free and liberated you are.
"I’m going to withhold giving you the respect you deserve because I disagree your choice of dress, most likely because I’m an ethnocentrist, an Islamophobe, and an imperialist."
That translation is on point
I am not the first person you loved.
You are not the first person I looked at
with a mouthful of forevers. We
have both known loss like the sharp edges
of a knife. We have both lived with lips
more scar tissue than skin. Our love came
unannounced in the middle of the night.
Our love came when we’d given up
on asking love to come. I think
that has to be part
of its miracle.
This is how we heal.
I will kiss you like forgiveness. You
will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms
will bandage and we will press promises
between us like flowers in a book.
I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat
on your skin. I will write novels to the scar
of your nose. I will write a dictionary
of all the words I have used trying
to describe the way it feels to have finally,
finally found you.
And I will not be afraid
of your scars.
I know sometimes
it’s still hard to let me see you
in all your cracked perfection,
but please know:
whether it’s the days you burn
more brilliant than the sun
or the nights you collapse into my lap
your body broken into a thousand questions,
you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I will love you when you are a still day.
I will love you when you are a hurricane.
There’s never been another soul,
Who could absorb me like you.
I’m barely hanging by a thread,
I feel like I should just be dead.
I can’t fake being okay anymore.
It hurts every time you walk out the door.
Love me or leave me.
Either way you’ve marked me.