Meeting you
I haven’t worn all black in a long time
……………………My all-black period ended earlier than I thought.
till I saw your skinless face and heard your screams.
A faceless scream
burst out of what seems to be
a carcass
nothing is moving
except for tiny parts of your face
like hatched maggots
I wonder about you and your life/death
after this horror scene.
Did you stop screaming?
What were you screaming? Were you unable to pronounce words
because you were too young to speak
or because you lost your tongue as well as your skin?
Did they fix your faceless head?
All covered in blood and pus
with a few hairs growing tall from your blood,
Your head looked like a bog.
I imagined surgeries that could fix your face.
They give you a questionnaire:
Did you like your skin color?
Did you enjoy seeing the world, colors, shapes?
Did you like seeing your loved ones?
Did you like the shape of your nose?
They take somebody’s facial skin
and somebody else’s nose
and attach all of this to you.
You wouldn’t look like yourself
I have a feeling you rarely looked in the mirror.
First time seeing you online
I read the description of your short video,
“Israeli bombardment of Gaza; a faceless girl screaming”
nameless, faceless, just a girl screaming.
I pulled myself up and uncovered the warning, ready to see.
I never hide away from war’s horror.
……………………I looked at your face
……………………I can’t get you out of my head, love.
You were a nameless bog made of blood, hair, and maggots.
Mourning you
I wore black for a couple of days
nobody noticed
I was mourning.
I would have loved you. I want kids. I love kids.
……………………Not so cool these days to want kids.
I would have walked next to you, extended my arm
with my hand open
imagining that you are my child
That we’re walking together, next to each other.
I do this with all the kids I see while walking.
They don’t notice my open and welcoming hand
and I cry a bit.
You too would’ve not noticed my open hand.
I mourned you.
I told my parents about you:
“I saw a faceless girl screaming from pain”
I told my love that I
/had/
to see you.
I wore black and waited to be asked who died
nobody asked.
I am too cheerful around people.
This letter is not for you.
……………………Do you know how to read?
This letter is the last step in grieving:
……………………letting go.
creating another version of you.
A version where I see you in the street
walk next to you
extend my arm
open my hand
and wait for your small, warm, covered-in-blood hand
to hold mine.
In this version your hand clutches into mine.
You look up at me,
smile
joyously shouting
……………………I want your face.
Sylvia Azmy