Speak by Daliah Al Bouri

Posted on April 27, 2013 by

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When she was a little lass, she’d thought she’d take the world before 18. A joyous spirit with dreams of music as her voice was her only instrument. She was a spitfire.

 

At 19, you can hear her multitasking her sobs and her breath; confused between praying her lungs would give out on her or be kind and allow air to settle into them; pushed, abused, defenseless.

 

After her heart stopped its frantic beat, she sat silently letting her father’s words wash upon her.
“You are in a land governed by the sands of its ancestors, you are not the bolt of lightning you thing you are. You’ll see and hear much that displeases you. You shut the fuck up, accept, embrace and move on.”

His words made her feel nostalgic for something she thought she had, but never really did, and that is liberty. She wrote,

Don’t speak. Don’t say a word. Just pour your sorrows out onto your pen and paper: as they’re your only weapon.

Write about liberty even when you can’t see beyond the little pestering tears sticking to your eyelashes.

You just need to survive. Convince yourself you have your fate in your own grasp. Whatever happens, it’s your design.

Being paralyzed by society’s injustice, their stereotypes and constant state of bigotry of everything defying the norm, is a simply a play woven by your genius.

And when it reaches its peak, you’ll burst out from seams of oppression. You will rise from the sand. You will dust off your feet and walk to the river.

Wash away their so-called glories, make your own.
Wash away your people’s ideas of mortality, stand by justice.

I beg of you, don’t let the fire fueling your soul die.

The warrior queens you write about? The alter egos that legitimize you as a semi-psychopath but ironically keep you sane?
They exist. They exist outside of your little skull and beyond the brick bulk you call a home.

Stick by them, write their stories because they are your reality on hold.

 

She pretty much though she was under demonic possession more than anything else, but this time, she chose to believe that the voice inside her head, as cheesy as it was, an angel.

 

She felt more at peace with herself and started a new letter. In it she said,

To my inner child, current adolescent and future self, to Medusa and the Desert Queens,

 

With patience there is resistance and within resistance there is always desperation.

 

Soon my pen will run dry, but until then, the pages of this book are your salvation… my salvation.

 

I won’t speak, I won’t say a word, but I won’t stand still either… I promise.

 

P.S. I find your wholesomeness infuriating, but gratitude to you, my angel.

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