My arabic is a child that sits in the front of the classroom but never raises their hand
My Arabic is a baby bird at the edge of it’s nest holding back a jump.
My Arabic is a gray storm cloud that passes over the town and only ever rains over the ocean.
My Arabic only reveals itself at events, convinced that it is a party trick.
My Arabic wants to defend me.
My Arabic is an angry pit in stomach.
My Arabic has a big heart and small hands.
My Arabic is a sunflower that turns too late, a piece of jewelry that rusts too soon, a pencil that breaks too early, a piece of cloth that rips too easily.
My Arabic wants to stand to say at least I hold two languages inside, but within only itself it cannot find the words.
My Arabic has been sitting down for too long and when it stands, it finds that its legs are asleep.
My Arabic holds the titles broken language, and bilingual in both hands, up to the light.
My Arabic plays with it’s food at the dinner table.
My Arabic reads a book at recess.
My Arabic stays in on Friday nights.
My Arabic sits alone at lunch.
I want to tell my Arabic that it is okay to falter, that it is okay to limp if that makes it easier to walk, that my Arabic can go as slow as it wants to, as long as it gets there, but I can’t.
Because just for once, I want my Arabic to stand on its own.