gay arab love stories
that there are people trying to do good here does not undermine or mean anything for the bad.
Looking out over the city of Nablus, I see no Palestinian flags. In the market, I hear no words no action. They are tired, these young boys who have never known freedom who don’t know to fight for it.
But they are also as unhoused machinery, exposed wires and clickings and berrings it would take little to set them on fire again, a crumpled up piece of paper jammed into the beepings the sparkings. beautiful brown boy with eyelashes that tangle with wishes like whispers, we are crumpling papers big and small, for the people here, beautiful gray girl with light webbing your fingers sticky, hold it up to your eyes and see through it,
put the knife to yourself and cut away the skin to reveal shivering the muscles and bone, the eyes quivering in the wind unhoused, we will cover you again but this time with something stronger than skin, with copper and iron, smoked glass for your eyelids you will never have to close them again they will never catch you unseeing again,
have you ever turned your eyes to the sky with your eyes closed, seeing through the skin, knowing its there in front of you, the stars that is the streaking stars that is have you counted them caught them in your memory to play back to yourself while you sleep the ticking dreams that are your hopes lilac colored ahmed whispers to karim, do not be afraid they will not find us, and if they do god will protect us. How can god protect us if he hates us? Silly, you listen too much to the stories, god does not hate us, god loves us. He put us here to be his messengers, they both begin to shiver, “shiver with me, shiver at the same time as me so that we can be a single vibration,” “it is something special to smell you like this, alone, for the ways we smell to mix together,” “god will protect us he loves us
he has made each of us exactly perfect,
he has made each of us exactly,
I am afraid to wander, afraid to become lost, or to realize that I am lost, to realize that the place I called found was a mirage, that the mountains and the lilacs are rubbed off the same great hands afterthoughts that a little girl with light caught between her fingers crystal webs has lost her sight looking into them and blind sees for the first time how she has always been lost,
how the made-blind vs the born-blind populate their minds, to be born-blind and populate a person with the touches of them, the smells of them and the sounds of them, maybe not even realizing that all people are roughly the same, roughly two eyes and roughly two ears, but instead a specific mist a human mist of voice and smell
our hearts are boats in the blood of us, raising sails through our ears and flags through our eyes–looking out over nablus, i see no flags, i see no thinking no knowing that this occupation is.
what words must be written on the paper of fire, that crammed into the machinery of people, or shredded and sprinkled in between their gears their sparkings will light them to be untired and unafraid
mothers and fathers and families, not people but the relationships you have with others, not a man who makes bread but a breadmaker, not a man who makes shoes, put your ears against the invisible walls around you and listen to the beating of the universe, put your ears into the invisible holes in the invisible walls and see the people who have been skinned of skin and muscled of muscled and are left crawling and pulsing on the floor, a mess of biology forgotten by time