On Remembering

When you are depressed, you remember everything about you.
The next thing you hate is how you appear to the world,
and you begin with questions: if you are visible when you watch the clock
raise its middle finger to your eyes.
Then you remember your therapist, who died a year ago.
Today, you think of her.

I remember your silence, Sonya. The day you said I was free, I remember it.
And I remember everything before we learnt the Quran,
before we found out what stays between transgender and war.
It was you, it was me, it was us.

I feel like someone is running in my body.
I feel like there’s a paper written: “we hate you.”
I feel like there’s a group of people killing queers in my body.

Today, I write to you. I swear: I do not want you to read how religion messes us up
into not believing in a God. I do not want you to hate yourself.
I do not want you to see how we set certain dates,
hoping we would disappear on those deadlines.
I do not want you to love what kills people like us.
I do not want you to feel how it is to feel your gender bother the earth.
I do not want you to feel the loneliness that carries our body.
I do not want you to read about our wishes: hoping to extend your days,
hoping not to die.