al-turkii:

Don’t feel sorry for the blind, they can’t see the haraam that you see.

Don’t feel sorry for the deaf, they can’t hear the haraam that you hear.

Don’t feel sorry for the mute. They cannot speak the haraam words that you speak.

Feel sorry for yourself. You have all of your senses intact yet you are heedless.

and I wonder if Beethoven held his breath
the first time his fingers touched the keys
the same way a soldier holds his breath
the first time his finger clicks the trigger.
We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.
Andrea Gibson (via 9940km)

saasmiyaa:

Here’s a nice list of things Muslim sisters can do without being criticized:

  •                    
My dad treats me like I am toxic.
He is a good man.
He tells me that I can be anything in the world, but I just feel like he doesn’t believe it.
He loves me, fiercely, from a distance…
He doesn’t hug me.
He doesn’t kiss me.
He tells me he loves me, but it’s always after he thinks he’s said something that he thinks has hurt my feelings.
But I love him… Like venom loves snakes. I may be the best or worst part of him—I haven’t yet decided.
I am the reason that he defeated the odds.
But he loves me like I’m toxic…
and puts everything before me. He says I’m strong enough to do everything without him,
but he always wonders why it takes so long.
Maybe if I were a little sweeter, a little more successful, a little less like my mother
and more like him, he wouldn’t be so afraid of admitting that I was the first one to ever make a man out of him. I made him face his demons.
I didn’t know it.
I know all of his secrets and that’s what makes me like poison.
I can break him to pieces. He is a good man,
but you remind me of him; the way you love me. Like sweet poison.
And neither of you love me enough to realize that I only want to touch you without feeling like Medusa.
I look in your eyes and you turn into stone.
You treat me as if I have snakes in my head, waiting to devour you.
j.l.
― Things I’m Afraid to Admit: I Cannot Love Men Like my Father & They are Incapable of Loving Me” By: Jacoria Little (via 9940km)
He says: I’m Muslim.
As he brings the double shot of rum to his lips.
I imagine the way it burns as it slides down his throat.
He winces, then smashes the glass against table.
Everyone turns and cheers,
then they go back to their conversations.
He says it again — I swear.
I say: I know.
He looks at me with sad eyes.
Wallahi - he says,
still trying to convince me.
I say: I know.
I watch his eyes turn to glass as he downs another.
I swear I am Muslim - he slurs
I say: I know.
No— he says— you’re judging me, look
and he holds his hands over his ears and he begins to recite.
And I put my hand over his as people begin to stare.
And I say: I know.
And he begins to cry, and his tears look ancient, and his face contorts, and his mouth is open but there is no sound, and his body shudders.
And he tries again and again, never getting past Bismillah.
He keeps on saying “No you don’t understand I am Muslim, I am Muslim, I am Muslim, I am Muslim”
I know, I say.
And he holds the bottle to his mouth and he almost swallows it whole, and he says “marry me Aasiyah, I am a good man, my father is a hafiz of Quran,
it is just this Dunya, it is this world that has killed me”
I know, I say
I know.
― Key Ballah, an encounter. (via 9940km)