She was pretty. She spent half her life, plucking and waxing and moisturizing, dieting, exercising, brushing, applying, removing, tucking this, hiding that, cleaning this, washing that, buying this and buying that, wearing clothes that hung gracefully to her shape, accessories to add taste, fake eyelash here, fake extensions there, piercing this, tattooing that. “It was her body,” she argued to those who criticized her. Then came the day she died. She was locked in a box, the key was thrown away, her coffin left to lay amongst the dirt, where her body will slowly disintegrate to nothing as the maggots, feast on the skin she used to take so much care of. “It’s my body,” she had argued. No. It was never your body. It was Allah’s. For if it was YOUR body, surely you’d have never left it behind. O Allah, Forgive Me All My Sins Great and Small, The First and The Last Those That are Apparent and Those That are Hidden. Aameen #reflect
Posted on: Mon, 01 Sep 2014 15:26:21 +0000
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