I sold this moment
for the price of

momentary happiness.


Memories are not refundable.

i feel like there is so much love left
when people leave us
and we have no idea what to do with them
so we keep them in boxes,
we store them in drawers
and sometimes,
we wear them on cold nights
when no one is watching.

all around us we make sure
we live in a place
with no trace of what has been
yet every closet is filled with the bones
of a dead love
and every corner is a reminder
of where we got lost

we hide the things they left behind,
we create mausoleums out of our rooms
and call it “moving on”

even my room is haunted
with his hasty departure
his old sweatshirt,
his silk necktie,
and the ocean blue summer dress he gave me
gather dust as a relic of a past
i have exhibited in the walls
of my broken heart

i buy cigarettes
and try to remember the taste of
his nicotine mouth
i study my face in the mirror
and try to remember the look of the girl
he fell in love with
i stay in the nights longer
i skip all the cracks in the pavement
i keep wishing he come back

one day i woke up
in a cold bathroom floor
filled with my tears and *****
that’s when I knew
where all the leftover love goes
it seeds hatred
then grows into despair
and finally bears the fruit of grief

there is no reasoning with a broken heart
only grief

and grief is the greatest leftover love there is
it spills all over
and seals your chest tight
until you feel no fight
and no other

so i waited and wasted away
until my ribs cracked
under the pressure of all the grief flowing out

and one day
i realized
i left one of his jackets
in my old apartment abroad
i couldn’t bring it any longer
my luggage is filled with so many new things
and his was a heavy garment
i just couldn’t carry anymore.

she smears her lips
with mama's red crayons.

(then
she swallows them whole)

lips like sour cherries,
puckered ,
                  swollen .

wiping her eyes on soft
tissue,
blood stains instead.

"We'll figure it out."
"Please keep smiling; I like it that I make you happy."
The words that make flowers bloom, wounds heal, and passions on fire.

I go to write the words on my pen,
but the ink runs dry.

Looking into the sea of my thoughts,
I begin to drown.

I reach and I grasp,
nothing.
I scream and I shout,
only silence.
I fill with doubt,
and doubt screams back at me....

"It's not true.
You can't make it.
If you ruin it,
then at least it was by your own choice.
Your fears,
are just the reality you face every day.
Give yourself back to me,
and become again who you used to be."

For a moment I sink further,
further into the abyss,
wanting to give myself away,
to let myself drown.

Further and further I go.
With each passing moment,
the doubt grows,
and I dwindle.

No longer knowing who I am,
I succumb at last to the water.
The dark chill of my thoughts,
the empty hollowness of who I become, and
the fears of my past begin to sink in.

All at once,
I am reminded of my past faults.
I am reminded of my past fears.
I am reminded of my past anxieties.
I am reminded of the loss of all that I hold dear.

I rise from the water at last, and
I breathe again.

I realize that,
no matter how much I grow up,
no matter how much I try,
no matter how many tears I cry,
I will always be scared.

I will always be scared,
of those who said they cared,
and hurt me the most.

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?