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Where I come from, I’m the devil’s incarnation The fallen woman Lilith. You see, there’s always a dichotomy at play: The sinner, not the saint. The whore and the prostitute. I am the one without a hymen The one mothers spend lifetimes protecting their daughters from becoming. Even by cutting off their clitoris By subjecting

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Rise

Tattoos are forbidden by their god Their god who is them Your body will not enter heaven The body cannot be a canvas Skin cannot be art It has to carry its wounds Visible, scarred, shamed Violated with no chance Of empowerment The bodies are a cradle of shame The inherent female guilt Your yellow

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The Young

Make way for the young! I’d hate to be the one to break it to you (or no, not really, I don’t care), but you’re dying soon. Stop being so selfish, will you? Are 70 years of living, dominion and destroying not enough? Make some space or at least allow us to claim some. Lift

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Privileged Exile

You read the words of Mahmoud Darwish, his nostalgia, revolution and melancholia swirl the desert dust over times and places to reach your eye. Yes, I swear. This is how the tear settled on my dry cheek. And Nizar Qabbani whose eroticism, love and poetic (but also political) fight for social justice make you tingle

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