¿Quién ana?
It’s an identity crisis!
The mental image of who I am
Shred into 3 slices;
First slice- American
Second slice- Mexican
Third slice- Tunisian.
It’s an identity crisis!
My brain’s resisting the downpour
of uncertainty and disconnect
but my heart’s being wrung in my hands,
gushing with the Tunimexican blood,
and left out to dry on the scorching lands
I wish I wasn’t born on.
It’s an identity crisis!
I carry the flags of 3 nations in my veins
yet only 2,
sometimes one
protrude on my face and tongue.
It’s an identity crisis!
So much pride for being from these 3 beautiful nations,
yet forlorn arises for being
so close,
so infatuated,
so familiar,
with the culture
yet so
distant,
infatuated,
and unattuned.
I get congratulated
for carrying these
3 states within me.
But I wish people would one day see
I am just as an alien in these 2 beautiful cultures
like them.
And that’s the part that
always, siempre, dimah
that makes my heart bleed out a little more,
my eyes pouring and pouring behind closed doors.
Here’s Your Answer
Yeah, I'm finna stand
here and watch you burn.
You bitch, that's what you deserve
for drowning me in an ocean
of insecurity and somberness
for almost a whole goddamn year.
I must confess,
I don't care if the flames of my
bitter and spiteful truth swallow you up.
You
deserve
it.
You ruined me.
You were the opressor who made
me drown into the murky depths of a teal ocean,
but you were also the helpless victim
who called out my name
but did not
jump in the ocean
to try and find me.
So fuck you.
Status Update
April 17th, 2020, 2:37 AM
I'm sorry God.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
Just let it all end
before my best friend
leaves me behind
to soak up the Cali sun.
Let it all be done
so I can have one more crazy night filled with
fun
with her.
Let it be done
before she leaves,
and before the stitches I sewed her heart with come undone.
Let this pandemic end
before I lose the girl who's lend
me her hand for almost 3 years.
Let it be over
before my smiles become nothing but
salty, watery tears.
Please God.
She means so much to me...
I'm afraid to have her hand let
go of mine.
Because she is the one
who walked me through the stop
and go signs of life.
The Sheer Truth I’ve locked away from you until Now
Why,
after all these months,
are you still after me?
There is nothing of you
I want to see
on my phone.
I don't want your apologies,
I don't want your imploring for forgiveness,
I don't want your shallow attempts to rebuild
what was never there.
Without you, I was drifting into a life
without a goddamn care.
And here you are.
Again.
I don't want to become your best friend
I don't want to be your savior to defend
I don't want to extend my hand and let it lend.
And I know, you covet for that.
Your insatiable desire to become everything you think I need and want
are the same things that stab you like malevolent taunts.
The acknowledging that you'll never get there.
And the knowing that I'll never be pleased
or content
or at least ecstatic
with anything you try and do for me.
Al-Qusayr, Syria
I know Death. I know it well.
How can I not know who Death is?
The figure who crept over my father’s dying, but determined, fighting body and trailed a bony finger down his chest as he smirked, watching my father slip before me with content.
“Baba, Baba, Baba!” I murmured, my fingers curling into his feeble, limp ones.
A small chuckle emerged from Death and I watched it put a thin, black leather half finger gloved hand on Baba’s chest.
Baba stopped breathing.
His eyes shut gently and his hands fell open. I blinked once, twice, thrice, trying to play it off as a figment of my imagination.
Baba’s chest did not rise.
Baba’s hand did not tremble.
Baba’s eyes did not open again.
Baba is dead.
Gone.
“No, no, no, Baba...” the tears were ready to fall out any moment, but I resisted them.
I wanted to see the bastard who took my father.
It was a cloaked figurine in an ebony robe, with a black bandana concealing his mouth and nose. From what I could see of its face, it had dark eyebags that looked like they were permanently etched under its eyes. Its eyes were a mysterious cloud grey, ones that seemed so beautiful and precious for a grotesque, apathetic, and disconsolate thing. They didn’t suit it.
I glanced at Death and it glanced back at me. There were millions- no universes of things I wanted to scream at it. But they never, and to this day, still never string together the fury and somberness I felt and still feel.
Death’s thin eyebrows knitted together and it said in an eerie, yet, collected tone, “I’ll be back soon.”.
When the last letter escaped his mouth, I threw my hands at him, trying to strangle him.
But he evanesced away.
And there I sat with Baba’s frigid corpse.
Confused, enraged, and sorrow, all at once.
Helpless
“Dad, where’s Mama?”
I keep my back to Alex and wrestle with the tears in my throat.
“She’s gone.”
“When will she be back?”
“Maybe in a week.”
How can I do this to him? I know damn well those bottles will get her before he has the chance to tell her goodbye.
“Dad?”
“Yes Alex?”
“Are you okay?” His voice trembles.
“Yes, I’m fine. Do you have homework?”
“Yeah.”
“Go finish it, I’ll call you down later.”
“Okay.”
I don’t want to do this to him-
It’s the only way I can hold his reality before it crashes down.
No Characters In My Story
I look around,
I find them with
overexaggerated grins
tugging their muscles.
It satisfies me
a bit.
At least I'll have
a story to tell.
True, I still dwell
on characters that've
parted from the story.
But these characters
are my favorites.
Some have been
there since the start,
their eloquent words making
their way into my heart.
Others joined a bit later,
and everything about them
made the plot greater.
Or so I thought.
Through endless pages and pages
chapters that captured my heart,
they were there.
Their perfect solutions to every problem,
their helpful and witty advice,
their willingness to listen to me spill my feelings
out onto their clothes,
their willingness to help me heal.
It was all too real...
I'm flipping the pages back
and something's gone wrong.
Their nonchalant and caring demeanor
gone.
The concern and worry on the faces
look hand-drawn.
They scowl and glower with
every step I take to them,
filling the air and silence with
cruel insults about me.
I know they don't want me
but I want them, so
I run to them
and they fade away.
I look around:
nothing.
All that's left is me,
on my knees,
crying on the ground.
My Ally
Girls against me,
guys against me,
teachers against me,
& you against me.
Everyone against me.
I’ll warn you before you decide to make a move:
Wave your white flag in the air, put your head down,
& utter the truth.
Aw, you can’t do that because you have everyone
drowning in ruth
for you.
Aw, you can’t do it because you’re too arrogant
to admit you’re wrong.
You’re too busy singing the song
of hypocricy.
One that sends everyone screaming, imploring for more.
You can’t do it.
And you won’t.
In that case,
I’ll have to enlist in some help.
I’d like you to meet
Karma.
No, she wouldn't like to listen
to your prose about how you hate me.
No, she wouldn't like to hear your backstory
about your past.
This will be your last
warning: admit that you are not the
asundered victim & you never were.
You're just a liar seeking attention
and affection.
From everyone.
No? You still rebuff?
That's okay.
Because Karama here
will teach you a lesson
you'll never forget.
It'll be there like an involuntary muscle:
it doesn't require a command from
the central body.
It just
works.