By Nouran Azzam
On my dry, crusty lashes are the memory of every tear I shed, of every pain I felt,
Every person I longed for and grieved,
And every version of myself I could never become.
On my left index finger is a small white scar,
Flesh removed
From when I had an accident with an X-Acto knife,
Crafting, building, stitching a model for scenic design.
A classmate rushed to bandage my bleeding wound,
And suddenly they were no longer a stoic judge
But now a nursing soul.
On my chin
Is a small depression
From where I had a giant bump
In my childhood chicken pox days.
I thought I was growing pubescent at the time,
So, I put on my helmet
To go to war with myself.
On my nose
Are blackheads and bumps,
Reminders of my shame,
Reminders
Of that one time I thought I looked like a witch
Or when this one girl told me I need to try to look
More beautiful.
There are no holes in my earlobes because our father couldn’t bear
To see his daughters cry from a needle puncturing their skin for aesthetics.
But we got needles, alright.
Many needles; vaccines to quench our parents’ fears,
Leaving a scar on my arm.
In my mind, I hear screaming / From when my sister and I / Continuously ran away / From our mother’s slipper. / Comedic to some, / But tragic to us.
My left heel has an inflamed
Ligament, a supposed mediator of bones
But now an adversary hindering my every move,
A reminder of my poor health, as I watch everyone around me
Walk on air.
My cuticles: the victims of my constant, compulsive scratching. I scratched them
To appease the voices.
My thinning hair,
A constant disappointment to me,
But now a child I love dearly.
I gave it vibrant colors, spa sessions, and a repair in a torn relationship.
My heart.
Poke it once,
And the chambers tear at the stitches.
Poke it twice, and your finger is drenched in blood.
The blood with memories of a child
Abandoned on her birthday,
Waiting for her mother
To show up for once.
Poke this heart again,
And you’ll have four gooey chambers
In your palms, and the blood will
Fill up the creases on your skin,
Illuminating in red
Your heart line,
Life line,
Love line –
Is there no love line?
My teeth,
Collecting dust in a cup
In a dimly lit bathroom.
Countless medical visits.
Pain with no gain.
My spirit
About to be killed
At the age of seventeen
When my soul slowly
Found its way out between
The patches of my life.
But I stitched and stitched some more
So it had nowhere to go.
The biggest chasm, perhaps, is the one between body and mind. Then I met Yoga.
I used to fight demons alone.
Shadows that slither their way into the cracks of my skull –
Yoga told me,
“Danger where there is none.”
A fragmented mind where internal family systems taught me that there are no bad parts and that I can find safety in my body again when I give my child what it needs. A hug, reassurance, love, warmth, and a home.
My arms,
Smooth but were once not going to be.
Stitched well
But were once not going to be.
Kept me alive,
But were once not going to.
Kept the blood underneath
But were once not going to.
Shame and blame
Ride in a train
To tell me in vain
That I will lose my veins.
Can I hook my fingers together
And call them pals?
Can I clap my hands
And call it a celebration?
Can I pinch my skin
And call it self-regulation?
Can I cry my eyes out
And say it was all for… nothing?
Choked laughter, fragmented by salty tears, and a ruddy face meet me in my mind’s eye
And suddenly I realize that no life is infrangible,
We are all pieces,
We are all Matryoshkas.
We all try to build the giant foam puzzles laid out in children’s playrooms, like carpets for little feet to walk on, not fearing the cold hard floor beneath.
I clasp my hands together,
One hand a starry night sky,
The other a sunny blue,
And I make them lovers.
To love the body
Is to meet the body
Where it’s at.
Thank you, yoga, for teaching me to slow down. Thank you, fellow nurse, for healing my wound. Thank you, lashes, for holding my teardrops.
Thank you, heart, for your resilience.
Above all,
I watch as my mind and body
Slowly circle one another,
Celestial spheres
Composing harmonious
Music.
Musica universalis.
But they never touch.
They never heal.
One day,
One day,
Lovers will unite
In eternity.