you stole my light
when i told you to stop
and you ignored my red light
and kept going
like my body was undiscovered land
and you were a colonizer.
perhaps my asking you to stop
turned you on
made you hungry.
you looked at me with your hungry eyes
like i was fresh meat
for you to take and have for yourself
ignoring my stop signs
cries
screams
because i am nothing more
than an object to you
made for your manipulation and pleasures.

You see my brown skin
And assume I'm a ****.

You see my hijab
And assume I'm a terrorist.

You see the smile on my face
And assume I'm happy.

You hear my words
And assume I'm okay.

But I am not.

Instead I am broken.
Yet I am also strong.

I am dark and rule-following.
I am peaceful and Muslim.

You assume based on
Society's POV.

If you smile
You must be happy.

Fox, CNN, any media
Tells you I am a terrorist.
So the names I get called
And the extra security checks
Are extremely upsetting.

The murders of black folk
Is either considered appropriate
Or it's "black on black crime"
So it's not taken seriously.

Who are you gonna believe
Me or those who don't know me?

Like an old friend inviting you to come inside.
Familiar. Comforting.
It will grasp you in its arms and hold you close;
And when you're ready to leave, it wont let you go.
You will beg and plead to be happy,
and it will put up a fight.
It will make you think that the only way to escape it is to take your own life.
If you are lucky, you can break free;
and it will sit and watch you from afar.
Calling your name.
Welcoming you back into it's arms.
It will intrude your thoughts.
Make you think you are worthless.
That you're better off dead.
Just keep telling yourself that it's all in your head.
Keep moving. You will get far.
Depression is not who you are.

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

Ive stopped making poems and art out of everyone I encounter beyond the surface.

I’ve stopped making myself a Martyr to my own feelings,

I’ve stopped forcing gorgeous jewels upon the crown of regular people.