3rd Place

إِنَّ الزمن الذي عشْنا فيهِ فسوف يمضي
وكان هالفراق بيننا يزرغ قلبي

لو كان عندي فرصة ثانية
أن التقي معك وأعلم أن هذه النهاية

لوجدتك والتقيت معك مرة أخرى
ولو كان تحمل قلبي ما فيه من قسوى

فيمضي الوقت على كل سرعة
وأنا أتذكر بيننا كل كلمة

The time we lived in will surely pass,
And this separation between us makes my heart ache.

If I had a second chance,
To meet you again, knowing that this is the end.

I would find you and meet you once more,
Even if my heart had suffered all its pain.

سأرحل عنك وقلبي معك، وأدفن حباً ما جناه سواك،
ولو أن للعمر درباً آخر، لسلكته إليك، ولما تركت قدري يمضي دونك.

ولو طال شوقي وحزني عليك، فلم أنَم ليلاً ولا نهاراً،
والأكل يغيب عنه اللذة، وكأن حبي فيك جناناً.

أحملك في نبضي أينما ذهبت، كأنك وطني الذي لا يغيب،
أرى طيفك بين يقظتي وأحلامي، فأمضي ولا أمضي، أسير بلا طريق.

تسألني الأيام عنك، فأخفض رأسي وأصمت،
كيف أخبرهم أنك رحلت، لكنك ما زلت تسكنني؟

قد أفارقك في الحياة، لكن قلبي لم يعرف الفراق،
وإن كان للروح أن تختار مستقرها، لاختارتك موطناً وعناق.

They speak of blessings, of futures written,
voices steady, unshaken by doubt.
Hands are shaken, prayers are whispered,
but none carry the name I once longed for.
Gold does not rest on my hands,
there is no ring, no touch, no glance.
Only a decision, made in quiet rooms,
sealed by words I did not say.
I sit among them, listening, nodding,
a daughter, a bride-to-be.
Yet between their voices, in the silence between,
your memory remains—uninvited, unforgotten.
They tell me this is fate, that hearts will follow,

And again, my family gathers for a wedding,
voices bright, joy too great to contain.
I would have been excited, too,
if only the bride walking forward wasn’t me.

Unexpected guests, faces glowing,
smiles bloom across the room like scattered petals.
The scent of oud lingers in the air,
thick as the silence pressing against my chest.

Gold embroidery glides beneath my fingertips,
woven softer than my fate.
The mirror watches with unfamiliar eyes,
a bride wrapped in silk, framed in expectation.

I could open this essay with some tired old cliche about love to tug on the reader’s heartstrings or some highly dramatized “data” about alcoholism designed to scare children and arouse Pentecostal prohibitionist pastors, but the punk in me will not allow the former and whatever is left of the Catholic in me will not allow the latter. The truth is that I am uninterested in the heteronormative definition of love and I am even more uninterested in painting my first real romance in broad black and white strokes; her body always looked most seductive draped in flamboyant, luminous gray.

I’m 21 years young, but I know more than I should about hard times.
My clock was built with the same sticks and stones that broke my spine.
I long peace of mind. This is a moment in time I desperately need it.
How do I find peace of mind when my mind is in pieces?

I’ve got strings in my hands and a mask on my face like Covid 19
All this shit going on, gotta self-quarantine till I get it together
I’m spiraling out of control
I'm tethered to us,
tethered to love,
emotions like drugs
The hardest pill to swallow is I'm addicted
I need it, without you, I'm livid
reliving my worst decisions

Out of a dream, I'm shot awake. Circles of darkness still linger, blocking out at least 70% of my vision though I see the clock clearly. It’s a quarter past 6 in the morning. My senses begin to unthaw as if they had just been taken out of the freezer. The scent of orange oil candles fills my nose, and the residue from the bottle of Ciroq that I emptied into my system in an attempt to drown my sorrows remains on my taste buds. Stiffness holds my neck captive, letting me know that I had fallen asleep on the couch. I look up slowly so that the light isn't too blinding.

It calls for me, like the moon calling out to the night.
Like the wind howling for the leaves to dance to its every command. Obedient.
I feel its crooked breath as it clings to my neck.
Plaguing my mind as my eyes begin to fade.
Falling slowly into its poisonous hymns.
I can feel the noose tighten as it wraps around my neck, and I begin
to remember the little girl, bearing her trophy.
I try hard to resist. Remembering what it feels like to smile.
The sun kissed my brown skin.
The gentle wind pecks my cheeks till I chuckled.

Hands.
Brown hands.
Gigantic hands.
Hands that made words fly.
Hands that made the earth quiver in fear
yet, so soft they eased my pain.
And gently carried me like the moon in the sky.
Hands that rocked me to the rhythm of his heart.
Hands that soothed dancing nerves
and comforted a restless mind.
Hands that watched stubby little legs
dance in green fields.
Hands that were stained with joy
and wiped lonely crumbs from a crooked smile,
but continued to eat anyways.
Hands that tanned in the sun