gameela / beauty

in a shop of cherry blossom scented lotions 

& greasy hands, a saleswoman holds my face

between perfectly manicured fingers: 

“your beauty is that of an Arab lady.” 

she sees through my mourned memories

in a room of polished women,

skin free from scars.

my aunt rubbed nivea crème

into her henna stained palms, 

never wearing makeup, her wrinkled

cheeks carrying the deaths of husbands

& her son’s dreams that fell like tea leaves

sinking in the scratched cups

she sipped from quietly

sighing ya Allah,

& i always wondered 

if she wanted more

than what prayers grant.

muslim girls with mental illness

hayati, 

you are not crazy. 

you need to stop being tired&pray

&allah will curse shaytan& 

your eyebrows have become one

&no lady would do&

are you crazy? 

i forgot the last step in the dark before 

entering the kitchen, my foot scraping

cold marbled edges that a man from another country

spent 5 days building while he cried, missing

monsoons and his son’s first words.

i used to drink 3 cardboard boxes of tangy

cocktail juice, the plastic straw searching for

more nectar. i ate 2 bags of salt & vinegar chips

and waited for their sharp edges to puncture 

the roof of my mouth. i never cared about

catching any flies, honey is too sticky but

my southern mom reminds me to brush 

knotted tendrils that grow from my head.

i have had migraines for 10 years but by now

i think of them as a second thought, a pulsing

reminder that i am here. 

i am exhausted but even in my bed

i cannot find the cold side of pillows or 

remember how to rest.