The Burning Sun

You said

you didn’t know me

 

And at first

your words fell short

of my heart

 

But you were right

 

You don’t know me

 

You don’t know me—

—or the way water dances

beneath my skin—

the way air moves

and bends

so that it may touch me

 

You don’t know

that my words

come together

to form birds

capable of much more than flight

 

You don’t know

that laughter

moves like silk

in my mouth

and falls like feathers

on foreign skin

 

You know nothing

of my heart

of my soul

of my skin

or the love I hold within

 

I am foreign

in this land

I am foreign

to you

 

If you read me

like an unfamiliar language

studied the way my characters move

to form sound

and spoke me

with all the messiness and curiosity

of a painter learning to sculpt

then you would know

 

What a shame it is

you never felt

the heat of my sun

 

 

 

I burned under yours

 

Copyright notice:

© Zeinab Hassan Fawaz and Broken Dolls, 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

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