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Sheikh Mariya
https://www.goodreads.com/mariya_sheikh
“It wasn’t beautiful. A Winter wedding is a union of elation and depression, red velvet blankets in a cheap motel room stained with semen from sex devoid of meaning, and black mold clinging to the fringe of floral shower curtains like a heap of dead forevers.
You sat down at the foot of the bed, looking at me like I had already driven away. I was thinking about watching CNN. How fucked up is that? I wanted to know that your second hand, off-white dress, and my black polyester bow tie wasn’t as tragic as a hurricane devouring a suburb, or a train derailment in no where, Virginia, ending the lives of two young college hopefuls.
I was naïve. I thought that there were as many right ways to feel love as the amount of
pubic hair,
belly lint, and
scratch marks abandoned by lovers in our honeymoon suite.
When you looked at me in bed that night, I put my hand on your chest to feel a little more human. I don’t know what to call you; a name does not describe the aches, or lack of. This love is unusual and comfortable.
If you were to leave, I know I’d search for days, in newspapers and broadcasts, in car accidents and exposés on genocide in Kosovo.
(How do I address this? How is one to feel about
a love without a name?)
My heart would be ambivalent, too scared to look for you
behind the curtains of the motel window, outside in the abyss of powder and pay phones
because I don’t know how to love you.
-Kosovo”
―
You sat down at the foot of the bed, looking at me like I had already driven away. I was thinking about watching CNN. How fucked up is that? I wanted to know that your second hand, off-white dress, and my black polyester bow tie wasn’t as tragic as a hurricane devouring a suburb, or a train derailment in no where, Virginia, ending the lives of two young college hopefuls.
I was naïve. I thought that there were as many right ways to feel love as the amount of
pubic hair,
belly lint, and
scratch marks abandoned by lovers in our honeymoon suite.
When you looked at me in bed that night, I put my hand on your chest to feel a little more human. I don’t know what to call you; a name does not describe the aches, or lack of. This love is unusual and comfortable.
If you were to leave, I know I’d search for days, in newspapers and broadcasts, in car accidents and exposés on genocide in Kosovo.
(How do I address this? How is one to feel about
a love without a name?)
My heart would be ambivalent, too scared to look for you
behind the curtains of the motel window, outside in the abyss of powder and pay phones
because I don’t know how to love you.
-Kosovo”
―
“Something’s died in me,” she goes. “It took a long time for it to do it, but it’s dead. You’ve killed something, just like you’d took an axe to it. Everything is dirt now.”
― What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
― What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
“You once told me that the human eye is god's loneliest creation. How so much of the world passes through the pupil and still it holds nothing. The eye, alone in its socket, doesn't even know there's another one, just like it, an inch away, just as hungry, as empty.”
― On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
― On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
“I wanted to tell you that it’s my birthday on Thursday and I would have wanted you to give me the gift of your guts on the floor, one last time,
to see if you still had it in you.”
―
to see if you still had it in you.”
―
“You’re not doing well and finally I don’t have to
pretend to be so interested in your on going tragedy,
but
I’ll rob the bank that gave you the impression that
money is more fruitful than words, and
I’ll cut holes in the ozone if it means you have one less day of rain.
I’ll walk you to the hospital,
I’ll wait in a white room that reeks of hand sanitizer and latex for the results from the MRI scan that tries to
locate the malady that keeps your mind guessing, and
I want to write you a poem every day until my hand breaks
and assure you that you’ll find your place,
it’s just
the world has a funny way of
hiding spots fertile enough for
bodies like yours to grow roots.
and
I miss you like a dart hits the iris of a bullseye,
or a train ticket screams 4:30 at 4:47, I
wanted to tell you that it’s my birthday on Thursday
and I would have wanted you to
give me the gift of your guts on the floor, one last time,
to see if you still had it in you.
I hope our ghosts aren’t eating you alive.
If I’m to speak for myself, I’ll tell you that
the universe is twice as big as we think it is
and you’re the only one that made that idea
less devastating.”
―
pretend to be so interested in your on going tragedy,
but
I’ll rob the bank that gave you the impression that
money is more fruitful than words, and
I’ll cut holes in the ozone if it means you have one less day of rain.
I’ll walk you to the hospital,
I’ll wait in a white room that reeks of hand sanitizer and latex for the results from the MRI scan that tries to
locate the malady that keeps your mind guessing, and
I want to write you a poem every day until my hand breaks
and assure you that you’ll find your place,
it’s just
the world has a funny way of
hiding spots fertile enough for
bodies like yours to grow roots.
and
I miss you like a dart hits the iris of a bullseye,
or a train ticket screams 4:30 at 4:47, I
wanted to tell you that it’s my birthday on Thursday
and I would have wanted you to
give me the gift of your guts on the floor, one last time,
to see if you still had it in you.
I hope our ghosts aren’t eating you alive.
If I’m to speak for myself, I’ll tell you that
the universe is twice as big as we think it is
and you’re the only one that made that idea
less devastating.”
―
Sheikh’s 2024 Year in Books
Take a look at Sheikh’s Year in Books, including some fun facts about their reading.
2 books
|
4 friends
87 books
|
28 friends
26 books
|
48 friends
85 books
|
10 friends
26 books
|
7 friends
3 books
|
10 friends
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