I am a skinny Muslim girl.
Two adjectives, one noun.
Adjective number one.
Something I realised could also be used
As an insult when I met you.
The word you use while giving me your opinion,
That I don’t remember asking for
About how you prefer a more medium-sized girl.
The word I repeat a countless times in my brain
While you joke about how my arm would break if you hit it.
I’m controlling the urge to tell you that my arm is not the only thing that can break.
Adjective number two.
You tell me I don’t look like one as if it’s a compliment.
When I meet you
I introduce myself and the only thought in my mind is will my name give away my faith
And my faith
The faith you have no faith in.
You ask me how my religion can tell me what I can wear.
Yet here you are telling me what my religion should tell me.
You decide for me what I can eat,
What I cannot eat.
You decide my nationality.
You decide for me as though I’m oppressed
Now, you tell me
Is it you or my religion?
Tough times to be one.
I’m loud to the point where it irritates you.
Your ears don’t wanna hear it,
Your brain does not want to process it.
If you see me in a crowd,
My presence is unnoticed.
I don’t speak very often.
I’m loud to the point where it makes you uncomfortable.
Your conventional ideas don’t want to be challenged.
Believe me, I’m shy.
But oh my, when I speak.
I speak of my ancestors,
I speak of the struggles of my people,
I speak of my mother,
The mother who sacrificed her freedom,
For my education.
I speak for all the humanity.
And believe me when I say this,
I’m quiet, but oh so loud.
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