Is not mentioned in the Quran but some theorize the man replaced Isa (as) on the cross If we integrate the Christian narrative, he died for thirty silver shekels. Thirty. A disciple of Jesus sold his faith for thirty silver shekels. Thirty. Turned his cheek, swift justice delivered by God. Thirty silver shekels. Thirty. Sumud is a foreign concept to him. 'He failed to make the proper sacrifice.' Eight people. Coffee and cards. Late night, at a university. Eight people, gathered around a table. Eight people, two the heart, two unsure whether we'd been under siege or to wave a white flag. So really, four. Four people. Four people was enough to pick up the scythe and gut me, disemboweled. You, my reaper. I never saw it coming, you know. I've been making progress in therapy talking doesn't do it for me so we're trying alternative methods. Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. We brought a shotgun to a standoff between machine rifles. ‘Red Rover, Red Rover, please send the memories over, with all the feelings you've been repressing, your fear, your self-esteem, send her right over, Red Rover, Red Rover.’ Last week, I uncovered Jane. This week, I'm uncovering you. Was I worth four people? Four potential witnesses to your tardiness? My ‘dysfunction’? I don't think they understood who was in our world and who was not. It was unclear to me, too. ‘No, I didn't think anything was off that night. Everyone seemed chill. Hey, are you okay? You look like you're going to be sick.’ Do you call me ‘Em-Jay’ these days? Or is it Junaid now? Maybe even Malik? Sorry, should we keep to my pseudonym? I've refused to write this poem a hundred times. It won't let me through anymore, it wants me to pay the toll. No more talking about love without grief, too. Here is your only hint: I am not your Judas and like I told my best friend, we're meant to see the prophets as an example. You made it so. Four people. Coffee and cards. Late night, at a university. You'll beat yourself up forever over this, I know, I know. I don't really need to ask if it was worth it. We both have the answer. And also, ‘Em-Jay’ never fit me. Malik does. Junaid does. I do. I fit. Malik Junaid. No ‘Em-Jay.’ I fit. I'm not sure love can exist without a balance between forgiveness and white-hot rage. Flowers tended to even when the past ravages the treeline beyond the meadow. Do you only read the girl's guide and my romantic pieces, avoid the more visceral retellings? You couldn't stop watching me if you tried. I couldn't forget you if I wanted to. Even in the heartache there is your voice. Your eyes. Do you know your upper lip doesn't sit nice and smooth when you smile? It's rebellion, written by God. The upper lip. Forgiveness is the key to us lasting a long time, maybe. I want to, so I must release how these words might land. I want to be respected. I want to be angry without you feeling betrayed. I want autonomy. Love without being tamed. Maybe marriage is a long cycle of ‘I’m sorry. I fucked up. Can we try again?’ Even if you’re unsure you can forget. I love you and I don’t want to think everything is my fault. It is not. I’m too tired to argue. You should apologize. I forgive and rage at the same time. I can’t wipe the memory of you hanging from the cross. Four people. Crucifixion. Coffee and cards. Rebellion, written by God. You sit in my belly and taste of anguish. You should grieve. We should. Rebellion, forgiveness, love, and rage, written by God.
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