NSFW Broken Body, Death.  →Ｘ

Tears fill my eyes as I read the words on my screen. The world seems to stop spinning for the slightest second as I re-read the anonymous message over and over again, gripping on to the hope that the words will magically disappear. But they didn’t. Anon had done it; they’d figured out that the only way to make me take off my hijab was to call my hair ugly. My one weakness.

A tear streams down my left cheek.

Eight years of academy hijab training…wasted. I had to prove this extremely relevant and good-looking anonymous person wrong, I cared too much about what they thought. How could I live my life knowing that there is one person out there who thinks probably my hair is ugly maybe? How could I look myself in the mirror? How could I face my family? My shoulders shook as I cried silently, and my chair squeaked ever so slightly at the vibrations; as if it, too, was crying in sorrow.

It wasn’t until that moment that the second part of the message dawned on me… how would I prove them wrong without breaking the rules? Was it really against the rules? I reach into my hijab and pull out a scroll. At the very top, in cursive jet-black inked letters, the word ‘Rules’ stares back at me. My heart is racing as my eyes frantically read the scroll.

‘Rule #1: no killing people,’ it reads. I let out a whimper. There go my evening plans. 

Suddenly, my eye catches the next words. The scroll is rustling in my trembling hands as I turn my face away, tears spraying out of my eyes like the spit of a white person as they try to justify racism. The cursive words felt more like a curse of words, vivid and refusing to disappear as if I were still staring at them even through my closed eyes.

Rule #2: don’t show ur hair girl it’s ugly lmaooooo

Let’s give credit where credit is due: Women’s March organizers Tamika Mallory, Bob Bland, Carmen Perez, and Linda Sarsour 

the wrong end of a very long tunnel

king falls am word count: 2106 poetry borrowed from straw house, straw dog by richard siken

read on ao3

x

and you wanted an adventure, so i said have an adventure

The car smells like Jack. He always forgot body spray on his mad rush out the door in the morning so he took to keeping a can in the glovebox. Sammy sits in the driver’s seat with a death grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles standing out like strings of pearls. In the passenger seat is the packed bag he found by the front door months ago.

It was months ago. It took that long to negotiate a way out of their contract at the station. And maybe Sammy was hoping for a miracle, hoping for a late-night phone call or the sound of a key in the lock. If he waited a little longer, dragged his feet, Jack would make his own way home.

But Sammy is sitting in a car that smells like Jack, with a bag in the passenger seat where his boyfriend should be, and his phone in the cup holder with the GPS waiting on his first move.

It’s a hard move to make. Sammy is a coward. He wants to go back inside. Back into their house, even though the mail is on hold and the gas and water has been shut off. Back into the life he and Jack built with each other, for each other.

But this is the only way back. Leaving now is the only way to go back home.

Jack, Sammy thinks.

He presses the clutch and shifts into first gear. He doesn’t slow down until the fuel gauge is on empty, seven hundred miles away. Then he pulls into the first gas station off the interstate and has a quiet panic attack.

It’s only for his benefit that it’s quiet, really. To keep some semblance of control. He could have made a scene if he wanted to. It’s one o’clock in the morning in the Middle of Nowhere, Northern Oregon, and Sammy is alone. He could fall to the ground and scream and be long gone before some unfortunate morning employee came in and checked the CCTV.

Jack, he thinks. He doesn’t scream. He gets out to pump gas.

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