Future husband, Marriage,, Poetry, Uncategorized

To the future Mr. Hafsah

Dear you,

I sit here on the second day of September hours after dark thinking of you as I always do. Hello Sweetheart. Guess what I learnt today? Are you guessing? Oh! You are hopeless at this game. I’ll just tell you. I learnt who you are. Or at least who you would be to me. According to three reliable sources you would be my polar opposite who would share absolutely nothing in common with me and with whom I would have to resort to creating mutual interest. Now that’s not so bad. You would love me, support me, cherish me, provide for me, and protect me. Oh my god! Could you get anymore awesome? Apparently not, because you would in addition and simultaneously treat me like….s**t but like in a ‘good way’ in the ‘Islamic way’. You would control me, occasionally rape me if I ever have the audacity to deny you what is ‘your right’, you would on occasion or regularly treat me like a slave to remind yourself you are a man because apparently looking inside your pants is not enough assurance. Like a prison warden, you would also dictate and restrict my actions and movements. You would be my head and I your submissive docile tail, just happy to follow in your lead. I also would probably never be able to satisfy you and as it is in the male nature to be polygamous you would give me the amazing gift of as many sister wives as you religiously can. Did someone say husband goals? Run to me daddy.

I think not

Sweetheart you are the love of my love, my soulmate. The perfect stranger created just for me and whom I would love with every bit of my body and soul. I would live and die for you; I would worship and cherish you. I would be your wife, your slave, your whore. I would be the cat that sits purring at your feet and the tigress that tears up your sheets. I promise I would be everything you ever and could ever want: but only, if you’ll be the same for me. Sweetheart I love you so very much but I love Hafsah more. I don’t know you yet but I know Hafsah. She has lived in me for 24 years. I have felt her die and resurrect ten thousand times, I have seen her break and rebuild ten thousand more time. Hafsah has bleed and she has cried, she has loved, she has lost, she has had the people she taught were family kick and spit on her when she fell. But Hafsah…Oh that beautiful child… she gathered everything she had, everything she was and rose. She rose through the punches and the kicks, the spits and the stones, the hate and the pain, the suffering, the heartbreak. Hafsah rose and she kept rising till she took her place in the sky. So now she is there: the brightest star. And though I love you, never doubt that, but I love her more. I love her too much to let anything, anyone, blanket her glow. So if you would only do that: stay away.

But if you would help her glow, if you would feed her light and adorn her with the love she deserves: please hurry up and make it to me. I have no list of requirement for you, I only ask one thing: true, pure love. Give me this and I will give you my heart. But Please be careful with my heart, she is a brittle beast: a precious porcelain I painted steel.

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Poetry

The war within

A Warrior on the battlefield
She stands with her sword drawn
Ready to kill
In this war one must die
Or all will die.
The fight between who she is
And who she should be
There they are
Shouting and stabbing
Kicking and pulling
Each sings its battle song
‘The world is cruel child, assimilate’
‘No. let your kindness dilute the earth sweet girl’
They beg that she listens
They demand that she choose
But how can she decide the voice to obey
Who to be
How to be
How can one be kind when one has only known cruelty.
How does one judge hate when one has never felt love.
The warrior thrown down her sword
She decides
No part shall dies
Every part shall live
She will be both
Who she is
and
who she is

I pride myself in being authentic. I am completely transparent. I understand that in this world you have to hide the best part of yourself so as not to lose all of yourself but I refuse to do that. If there is a part of me fragile enough to die from exposure, I’d rather it be dead and leave room for the stronger parts of me to wildly flourish. I guess it would be easier, more rewarding even, to ‘assimilate’: be one with the world and massacre my authenticity at the altar of societal acceptance. Or perhaps I could ‘be kind’ like my mother and holy book tells me to. Be like the prophet and the angels: the perfect Muslim girl. It has afterall been guaranteed to make Life easier and heaven secured. I can’t be either of these persons because I despise these persons and I am both persons. I am like everyone but unlike anyone. I am a juxtaposition of opposing complexities so incredible. I am broken: I am whole. I am strong: I am weak. I am open: I am closed. I am glorious: I am hideous. I am everything: I am nothing. But the beauty of it all is that in spite of all these, because of all these: I am Hafsah.

Poetry

A Constellation of Me

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I fold cycles into stars:

dim; bright.

I hang them boldly

in the shape of me:

a constellation in my image.

And the stargazer will look

and he will say

‘Oh how divine! A majestic collection of misery’

I don’t make birthday wishes, I make birthday reevaluation. I consider the changes I’ve made in the past year and quantify the gains and losses: most times than not the scale have tipped in favor of loss. Year after year I promise myself ‘This is your year Hafsah’ but year after year it never is.
This year I started a new birthday tradition: pride. This year I decided to be proud of myself for everything I did and everything that was done to me. I reveled in the blessings and curses of the past year, I embraced all the scars and all the kisses, welcomed the monsters with the angels and i displayed my pain alongside my joy, I completely and with exhilaration emptied myself and I can say with absolute conviction that this year is my year. Not because something amazing is going to happen but because something incredible has happened: I am here.