Before I fall

[Ilham El Moutawakil]

I hope you like it



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You said you’re closer to your sister.
You have one of those child-like smiles.
You never talk much about yourself.
You let me win every argument - your mother taught you well.
I bet you look a lot like your father,
and for once, that’s a compliment.
When did you stop being just someone I knew
at four, ten, and maybe seventeen?
Because it’s Eid, and we’re continents apart,
and suddenly I’m comparing our heights on a Chinese chart,
wondering what you’re doing with your day off,
if your coffee order would make me laugh or roll my eyes,
whether you’re a two-sugar person or the straight-to-the-point kind?
Have you ever been heartbroken?
How many childhood scrapes still map your skin?
Do you believe in love, even in this generation?
And when are you coming to town?
And oh boy, it seems
I’m still capable of developing a crush.
There’s the goofy smile I get from your texts.
Spring’s overstaying her welcome -
I can feel it in the butterflies flaring up inside.
Pink is my new color, and it turns out
I don’t look too bad in dresses and flowy skirts.
I smile at strangers, wave to dogs,
and talk to cats like they understand.
But I made myself a promise
after my last green-eyed disappointment
to recognize the pattern when I see it,
to catch myself before I fall.
Because even I cringe at my trust misplacing.
And I’m self-aware enough to admit
I’m a helpless hopeless romantic
trapped in the hardened shell of a 25-year-old woman.
So let me be honest -
I come with footnotes.
My teeth aren’t white enough,
and I have one of those Greek noses.
I carry generational female rage like a worn-out Birkin.
I can’t drink my tea unless it’s scalding.
I’m willfully strong - words don’t pierce my walls,
but my eyes always betray it all.
I apologize before I speak.
I’m empathetic to a fault,
with a vicious case of social anxiety
that floods my face when something’s wrong.
I read murder fiction for fun.
I’m hard-headed - God help you when I pick a fight.
My tongue runs miles and does more than talk nice.
I make a fuss over things I know won’t see tomorrow’s daylight.
And even thunder needs a place to rest.
I carry too much for my 5ft frame - terms, morals, and all.
And no,
I don’t believe in love-bombing
or in nonchalance and bare-minimum behavior.
Because I deserve to be obsessed with.
I deserve to be treated well.
I deserve to be respected, loved, and protected at all costs.
I deserve to live rent-free in your mind.
I deserve to be taken candid photos of and kept in your wallet.
I deserve to go to war for and come back a champion.
I deserve every little break in your 9 to 5.
I deserve flowers -
for the occasion that I am.

I deserve the most.