I love full length mirrors
because I get to see
my body
all of it

I do not love my figure,
I do not love my face.
But when I find a full length mirror
I stare.

I Am God.

I Am God
over this pathetic,
mortal
flesh.

I Am God.

I can stretch
my arms
way over my head
watch my ribs peek through

Fragile, mortal bones.
I could break them
it would hurt.
But I could break them.

I Am God

I picture the lungs beneath
Black
Blackened
Because I Am God

Puff
Inhale
Ingest
Blacken, damage
Because I Am God.

I stroke my tummy
flat, muscled.
My thighs
round, soft, pliant
My Choice

Eat
Eat these fatty foods
watch the muscle
the muscle that made this body burn
watch it disappear
lose it in new rolls of fat

I Am God

I care not for this body's suffering.
Eat more cancer from this tin can.

I Am God

Inhale more cancer
from these cigarettes.

I Am God

Now crunch. Do 100. Now Run. Faster. Burn. Ache.

I Am A Merciful God.

I do not cut you
I do not make you bleed
But don't for a second
think I cannot
I could
and it would hurt

I Am God.

You, body, are my subject.
I will tear you, pierce you, to decorate you.
Ink you
and alter you
Because I Am God

You supple flesh, you have no say
I will use you
for my pleasure
I will starve you
for my appearance
I will burn you
under the sun
just to see
how many layers
I can peel
before this body
gives up
and is gone.

I Am God

I will inhale this cancer
Until my lungs start to rot

Because I Am God

and I will choose

How You Die.

Pinstriped suit
Black briefcase
clink of heels
On marble floors
imposing glass walls
Emails coming in
Emails coming in

Slacks and a tshirt
Powderblue backpack
Red hightops
on gravel
lockers on walls
Students coming in
Students coming in

Oak desk
Open door
Client comes in
Check the emails
"I want a divorce"
turn to the client
turn to the client

Blackboard
Open door
Students stream through
Smile in greeting
"Recess 'aint long enough"
Open up textbooks
Open up textbooks

Client cries
Keep professional poise
nod in understanding
Show no weakness
"He won't sign the papers"
Just nod
Just nod

Students protest
explain over the noise
try to make them love it
show no weakness
"who cares abour 1945?!"
I care
I care

Go home
Collapse onto the
Black leather sofa
in front of
the plasma screen TV
Instant noodles for dinner
Instant noodles for dinner

Go home
Collapse onto the
stained, worn-out fouton
the kids badger
for some television time
Put the roast in the oven
Put the roast in the oven

The neighbors open
their doors
turn to watch yours
remian tight shut
Noone to expect
Noone to come home to
Noone to come home to

The key turns
in the lock
turn to see
him walk in
bag of groceries in hand
Dinner's almost ready
Dinner's almost ready

TV programs over
Noodles devoured
papers signed
emails replied to
slip into bed
In bed alone
In bed alone

Children fed and bathed
television switched off
homework assistance provided
papers graded
husband made love to
Someone to hold on to
Someone to hold on to

Bathtub full of
Cranberry scented foam
Water's cold now
Body's cold now
Cold blade on Cold marble floor
So much blood
So much blood

Alarm goes off
Wake the children
Pack the lunches
Make the breakfast
Read the paper
Such a sad sad suicide
Such a sad sad suicide

Bathtub full of
Cranberry scented foam
Water's cold now
Body's cold now
Cold blade on cold marble floor
So much blood
So much blood

Hold him close
So much warmth
Hold the kids tight
Transfer body heat
Why did she die?
She had it all
She had it all

Nobody to inheret
The condo with a view
The money in the bank
The diamond earrings
the workload
Nobody to miss
Nobody to miss

Hold him close
So much warmth
Hold the kids tight
Tarnsfer body heat
Why did she die?
She had nothing
She had nothing

I was told to write down my identity
a neat sheet of paper
that would briefly explain me
I pondered a while
attempting to identify
a few key moments of my history
Do I tell of the immigrant?
or the miracle child?
do I speak of depression
and how I so rarely smiled?
Should I tell you about the language
I so rarely spoke
for fear of fitting a stereotype:
the terrorist trope.
Shall I explain hypomania?
and how I couldn't sleep?
and how the monsters I dreamt of
into my conscious peripheral would creep?
How I couldn't seek help
until I was almost twenty-one
because in my parents' culture
mental illness doesn't exist.
My parents were Palestenian refugees in Lebanon- but that's their story not mine, right? They were married for seventeen years before they had me. They tried to have children almost from day one- but that's their story not mine, right?
Finally they immigrated to Canada for a million procedures that would give them a baby. After six years of treatment, a random obscure procedure worked and I was a bun in the oven- but that's their story not mine, right?
nine months later I was born.

I was a miracle baby and the "light of their life." so they named me light: "Noor."
I was born at North York General with a priviledge my parents never dared dream: Canadian. Safe. Not a refugee. They had someplace that they'd send me for university.
With our new, safe nationality
at forty days old
I was taken to the UAE
I was raised on Western books
and Western TV
raised with ideas that just didn't fit
in a muslim family
(at least my family is liberal, unlike the UAE)
I haven't scratched the surface of who I am
and depending on the pieces I tell
I haven't scratched the surface of all that I could be
what I choose to write is how you will read me.

Lipstick stained cigarette
Lipstick stained coffee cup
I want to see
how you'd look
If you took your lipstick off

There we go
That's better now
Go on- more
Wipe off that mask

I want to see who you are

You're still beautiful

Wipe off the eyeliner
Take that mascara off
Oops, now your eyes are all smudged
Let me help you out
with that

Do you mind
if I touch your face?
I just want to see who you are.

We're all clowns a little bit
Hiding in our makeup bags

You're still beautiful

But I see your posture slip
Your shoulders slump
a little bit

Have I wiped away
the strings
that held
your body straight?

Have I washed off
all the colors
that kept your chin up?

Have I washed off

Most of who you are?

I was eight,
My cousin was eighteen.
He called his mother Mom
"When will I be old enough,"
I asked
"to call my mama Mom?"

Mom seemed a privilege
to be earned with age.
Eight year olds had to say
"mama" or "mommy"

I experimented with Mom
such a deliciously Western term.
I addressed birthday cards to Mom
and mother's day cards to Mom

She didn't seem to mind
so I started calling mama Mom

But the novelty wore off
and I got sick of Mom and of mom
And I wanted nothing to do with mom
so I wouldn't even call her Mom

She was Alia.
I called her by her first name
because I resented Mom and mom for loving me.

I called her Alia
She called me Daughter
a forceful reminder of the umbilical cord.

Then I went away to university,
over the Atlantic Ocean
a 14 hour plane ride away.

And I wouldn't call at all.
I wouldn't call to call her "mama" or "mommy" or Mom or even Alia.

But she would call
And she would call me Daughter
or "habibti" or "my sunshine."

And I didn't want to hear it.
I was eighteen
and I didn't need Mom.

I was gone eight months
and I didn't miss Mom
I didn't miss the Middle East
I didn't want to be home

I think She hated me for a while.

Then I was back in Toronto
University got hard
And I got tired
And I couldn't sleep
And friends proved false
And I got fat.

So I called Alia
And she stayed on skype with me, singing
Arabic Nursery Rhymes
until she saw I was asleep

And Mom watched me sleep.

But "mommy"
kept the laptop on all night
In case I woke up scared
and needed to call out for her
from across the Atlantic.

And "mama"
is at home
waiting for me
with a hug

And I just want to go back
and do it over
so I could take back every day
that I didn't call her
mommy.

High and mighty
Jaws well defined
High brow
and high cheekbones.
Sharp.
Sharp like your tongue
when you mean to be mean.
A face well befitting
Your cold-
Your cruel streak.
The incline of your chin
Your smirk on thin lips

You think you intimidate?

Maybe...
Maybe if I didn't look
beyond your angles.
Maybe I'd be hurt.

But your eyes.
Round-
Round, shining, bright eyes.
No angles there.

No matter how hard you try
to darken your makeup
to sharpen your gaze.
You still have the eyes you had as a child.

Before you sharpened your angles

You think you can hold a steely gaze?
You think you intimidate?

When I look past your angles
the fear falls away.
And in your brown eyes I see you naked
stripped down to the barest form of your rage:


Hurt.

This is a model city.
No, that implies perfection.
This is the model of a city.
A minuscule construction
plastic and glass.
Minuscule.
But if it is small
I am smaller:
A mere rodent
little white mouse.
Let loose
Set free
out into the maze.

And when the sky is dark
dark like this
Cloudless and looming
I look up
at model buildings
gleam and glisten
In what light?
I imagine
the countless windows
are their eyes.
Gleam
Glisten
Glisten
Gleam

Watch the mousie

Watch her squirm

Watch her indecision

Miniscule model of a model city
Plastic and glass
Close to collapse.
and I-
I am claustrophobic.
Too big and too small
simultaneously.

I am so uncomfortable.

"Darling are you intoxicated?"
only slightly, I'm fine.
I sway
But it's getting so hot in these clothes
I think I'll take them off

Although I am half naked anyway.
I never find reason to wear much
during the summer time.

You help me out
of my slightly damp
tank top
and my lacey black bra

brushing against my sensitivity
with your mouth
on the way down to the button
of my camo shorts.

Unbutton
Unzip
Unleash
more heat.

Don't hold me too close
I may melt in your arms.

I’d had an awful feeling
about that night shift that you did
tried to keep you at home
“How will we feed the kid?”
nine months heavy
with a baby who would’ve been yours
You shouldn’t have taken that night shift
even if we’d have been
120 bucks short.
It was seven in the morning
and your shift was almost done.
Why did you insist on fighting?
Did you know he had a gun?
We thought the baby
Would be our biggest mistake
too young to raise a child
and our futures were at stake.
Now I know
the baby
is nowhere near our greatest fault.
It’s not stopping you from taking that
night shift
that I’ll spend my days regretting.
120 measly dollars that
you had to go off to earn
so that I could get
that phone call.
You know your funeral cost more
much more
that the money that you made
Do you know I hate you?
I hate you
and I wish I’d never met you.
I would’ve never gotten that call.
I’d wanted you cremated
for two reasons:
I wanted you to burn.
Burn as bad as my ears did
when I got that call.
Also, so that I wouldn’t have to think
of you
spoiling, rotting, dying countless deaths
in a box
in the ground.
So there would never be a gravestone
so that I’d never have to see your name
carved there
the only part of you
immortalized.
Do you know who called me?
Your mother
She was incoherent.
You’re so selfish.
I hate your rotting guts.
We were so scared that our baby
would compromise our futures
and now we don’t have one.
This baby is the only reason
that I haven’t come after you.
Do you know I kissed you?
Your lips were cold.
Did any part of you outlast your mortal flesh
and feel me kiss you?
Do you ever watch me and our little girl playing in the park?
Who was right? You or I…
I want to believe you now
believe in your heaven
and believe in your God.
Because if I was right
there’s nothing left of you
but rotting flesh.
Your shift was almost over.
Did you know he had a gun?
Did he know you were about to be
a daddy?
Would he have cared?

I miss you.

The English language is my home
articulation,
my forte.

So when I ask: "Where is the smoker's section?"
I expect to hear a response in English.

Instead I must stand
ashamed
beneath a giant no smoking sign
in the a cubicle
of the women's washroom.

Intolerable,
I suppose.
46 more days
intolerable, long, hot, stretched out days.
46 more days
of being intolerable
because every day crawls by
crawls so slowly
like a shot in slow-motion

on pause

Crawling to Hitch a Ride
these long slow days are going to
hitch a ride
on the back of a snail
46 days.
There have been
46 days left
for the past 46 days.
I envy every person
in every plane
that is flying away from here
from me
because apparently I am intolerable.
Here's news for you:
YOU are intolerable.

**** it.

I'll nap the 46 days away
anything is faster
than
Crawling to Hitch a Ride on the Back of a Snail

I used to love
learning
so many different voices

Creating stories to fit
languages I will never speak

But now it all sounds
Ugly.

It doesn't fit the stories
that I try so hard to
fit
like puzzle pieces to the voices from
languages I will never speak

My wide eyed wonder
is converted
to heavy lidded dependence
on caffeine.
My excited edge has now become
a craving for more nicotine

to take the edge of crowded culture clash
in
No Language I Will Ever Speak.

Your blood smells different
from mine
when I cut myself.
It's not ******, it's an experiment.
I want to see if
everybody's blood smells different
from mine
when I cut myself.
Her blood was musky
like it had just had ***.
Yours was sharper... Tangy.
Sour almost.
It smelled like something you'd mix with *****
if you were looking to get
really ****** up.
Hers smelled like it was just about to light a cigarette.

Wide eyed
frightened
mommy holds your hand.
Not in public, mom!
Not in public!

Wide eyed
overwhelmed
tears battle to the surface.
Not in public, tears!
Not in public!

Wide eyed
excited
home for the next four years.
Are you ready?
Am I ready?

Mom’s gonna cry
Daddy’s yelling instructions.
You can’t read the map.
How will you manage?
How will I manage?

Students walk by
skinny jeans and sneakers
iPods on blast.
They’re so cool.
They’re so intimidating.

In and out of libraries
piles of books in their arms
they’re smiling
they’re laughing
you feel like crying.
I feel like crying.

You want to be here
it’s all you’ve ever planned for
Will you ever fit in?
Don’t cry
I won’t if you don’t

Mom and dad follow you.
You want them to leave
so you can be alone.
You don’t want them to go.
You don’t really want them to go.

Your little brother
looks up at you
looks up to you
give him a hug.
You need a hug.

Walk past me
I’m in skinny jeans and sneakers
iPod on blast
I’m so intimidating
You’re so intimidating.

Mommy holds your hand
daddy’s yelling instructions
your little brother looks up at you
Will you ever fit in?
I’m so intimidating.
Don’t cry
I won’t if you don’t.

It’s too hot
and stuffy.
The blanket holds me in
holds me down
I’m suffocating.

I toss and
I turn.
The blanket is tangled
between my legs
I’m trapped.
I fumble and
I fidget.

I lean up on my elbow
to look out.
My arm is numb.
The CN tower.
Can you see it?
Can you see it?
Is it behind the fog?

It’s too hot
and stuffy.
The blanket is tangled
between my legs.
My arm is numb.
I fumble and
I fidget.

The blanket holds me in
holds me down.
I’m trapped.
I toss and
I turn

I lean up on my elbow
to look out
I’m suffocating.
The CN tower.
Behind the fog.
Behind the fog.
I’m still in Toronto, right?

It’s too hot
and stuffy
I fumble and
I fidget
I toss and
I turn.

Can’t sleep while suffocating.

Open the window. It’s freezing outside, let it in.

It's a sleepless night
and I'm drowning
in my reverie.
I'm missing you
and craving you
next to me.

I'm sorry I upset you
with those things I said
about needing someone
(anyone)
with me in bed.

I forgot
you don't think
the same way I do
Love and ***
mean the same thing to you.

You know that
I love you
and you're the only face
I ever want to
wake up to.

But *** is just ***,
a **** and a ****
I know that you hate this
but I need to be blunt.

I guess we just
don't see eye to eye
and I have no desire
to ever bid you goodbye

So once again,
while you're away

I guess I'll just use my hand.

Or the too-slender
neck
of this bottle of wine.
Maybe I can get off
alone
this time.

See That Lady
On the corner Right There?
They would whisper as they walked by

She was married
they say
20 years ago

When She looks up
They go silent,
suddenly shy.

Once out of earshot
the story
gets told

About the Lady on the Corner
who was married
20 years ago

In the stories
They say
that She's crazy, insane!

****** or ******
or some disease
with no name

He didn't exist
Her imagination
ran wild

She was married
They say
20 years ago

He left for France
He said He'd
return

*He'd meet her on
The Corner
Right There

This is how
the story
would go

Every time
we walked by
The Lady who was married 20 years ago

In the stories
They say
that She's crazy, insane!

****** or ******
or some disease
with no name

But if He was real
and He didn't come back
and She waited on the corner until she got hooked on crack

and 20 years
passed
and he still hadn't come

If He was real
and He left
and forgot

Then Her heart
must be breaking
Her mind must have rot

From the ache
and the pain
But worse from hope and from love

This is
Humanity.
All hope is lost.

Seventeen
and I owned the world.
I could make my own life
and fend for myself.

At Seventeen
with the world at my feet
I didn't need parents
I'd live to my beat.

Rules, Religion, and
Stifling Care
I wouldn't have to deal if I wasn't there.

I don't want your money
I don't want your love
I don't want your country
I don't want your god

You can try to escape
but our blood runs through your veins
and try as you might
you won't forget your last name

But I screamed and I yelled
that I'd walk straight to hell
rather than spend another day
locked up in this cell

I hated my family, hated their love

I am an island, I am a rock

I guess I was angry
that my education
and the roof over my head
had to be provided
by somebody else

I suppose that I thought
That my pride was at stake
if I ever owed thanks

You're an ungrateful brat
I'm the idiot who spoiled you
You know where we live.
come by when you need to

As long as you're gone
I won't leave this bed
This spot right beside me
will be warm
when you want to come home
Just crawl in beside me
if it ever gets cold
out in the real world
where you want to be

As long as you're gone
I won't leave this bed
I'll keep your spot warm, until I am dead
and even when I die
My heart will keep beating your name in my chest

Noor Noor Noor

You are the light of my life
and the pain in my days
and although you fight it
my blood runs through your veins
Your heart will beat true
*even if every word I've spoken means nothing to you

You really don't understand the difference
between property and territory
do you?

When you buy yourself a nice plot of land
then won't allow anyone to grow their cabbages on your land
That's property.

When a dog takes a **** on a fire hydrant
and all the dogs know to keep the **** away
That's territory.

I never called you her property.
All I said
Is that she's ****** all over you
and now every ***** within a 20 mile radius knows to keep the **** away.

I can see the sound of seconds
As they slowly slide by
Like a hospital waiting room
Where the lights are too bright
And the walls, and the floors, and the people
Too white.

Where is this place?
Am I trapped in my mind?

Any semblance of sanity
Long left behind
The ticking is sliding
Like the beats of my heart
The sound of the scraping
Sand against sand

Caught in an hourglass
Sifting, sliding

Grains of tears spill
Scraping my skin
Rough without
Was once smooth within
These rough, salty flakes
Tear at my eyes

Until I am sifting
And sliding inside of these sounds

I miss when clocks just ticked.

Five star notebook
for my three star rhymes
Joke's on me, actually
for thinking I might stand out
among other owners
of five star notebooks
who also jot down
three star rhymes
or maybe four?
who am I to judge?
Not even qualified
to criticize

Not that one needs a degree in cynicism.

I litter the city
With my cigarette butts
A long, sad trail
begging you to come
find me.

But you can't.
The wind blows
my breadcrumbs
to throw you off my scent.

They linger and they mingle
with the rest of the trash
left lying in these city streets.

It's a pattern left by all the lonely wanderers
begging to be followed
into the storm.

There was a flaw,
In this creation.
A little mistake,
If you will.
Who was it who decided
to place reason
and instinct
in one vessel,
in one being,
then decided
to surround it
by flesh?

It was a stupid idea.

Photographs
on my dressing table
and your chin
does that thing
where it wobbles
like you’re about to cry.
I stop complaining
for just a moment
just to ask
what you’re looking at
and you point
at the photograph
on my dressing table.
And I want to be angry.
But I’m tired
way too tired to be mad.
I was sixteen
in that photograph
Felt more like I was
sixty
eighteen now
and feeling a lot closer
to eighty
Every year a decade
of impotent rage
of adolescent angst
but how?
I’m sixty or eighty.
In that picture I’m laughing.
I don’t know why
nothing to laugh about
at sixty
or sixteen
I want to be angry
because you think I should be
laughing
like in the picture
not angry
like I am now.
but I am angry
because that picture
misrepresents
Nora at sixteen
or Nora at sixty
I did not laugh like that
I do not laugh like that
I do not know her.
That girl in the picture
looks happy.

She looks like me.

But happy.

Eyes closed,
sunglasses on
and the brightness suddenly fades.
A cloud just passed beneath the sun,
trying to soak in the rays.
I know, I just know
I feel in my heart
that the cloud floated in from the right...
But how could that be
when the wind clearly blows
the other way
with all its might.
But somehow I know
as my eyes remain closed
that the little cloud fought and fought
And finally made
its own little path
and found its home in the sky.

I look to the ceiling
at the crack in the plaster
and focus really hard
on catching a signal
I probably make a face
but I don’t know.
I’m focusing too hard
on the crack in my ceiling
to think about mirrors
I stare at the crack
until I think of words to think
then I think them
while focusing very hard
on the crack in the plaster
The Words
sound jumbled in my head
I try to say them
out loud
My Voice
frightens me
too loud
speak softly
“Hello?”
What are you expecting?
A response?
“Uhm, yeah… Sorry. Hello
I’m Nora.
You know me… I guess.
We don’t talk
but you made me
maybe
I don’t know
I like to think I know
Not knowing is no fun
specially when people know
that you don’t know.
I wish I didn’t know
that I didn’t know
but that’s the worst kind
but I wouldn’t know.
Anyway.
I’m not completely convinced
that you’re there
They said I should feel
something
I don’t think I’m supposed to feel
stupid
talking to a crack in the ceiling.
I’m sorry to bother you,
God.
I just wanted to say hi
and let you know
that I don’t know
but I want to know.
I don’t know what that means
but They told me that
You
would know
Everything.”

I'm sorry it has come to this
but my time has come to pass
19 going on 90
and I can no longer remain.

But for you,
dawn will bring another day
until your day arrives
to take you home.

Perhaps then we'll meet again
in a heaven
or a hell
or someplace where the gone must go.

I closed my eyes
before I went
to save you
that final ache.

My stiffened limbs
I've kept them whole
so you could have
a body to hold.

bloodless and cold
I will go
as I have lived
and I have felt.

Don't mourn your loss
for nothing has left
but the breath it had become
so hard to draw.

Celebrate my absence
for all it means is that I can sleep
as I have never slept before
no wicked things will haunt my dreams.

For the dead can dream no more.

Lie in bed
Breathe
Breathe

Focus on it
In
Out

Don't focus on not focusing
just focus

Don't think
About not thinking

I Can't

Then sleep
Just sleep

8PM
too early

I Can't

Lights off?

No, I know
that as long as the lights stay on, I'm safe.
From all the images in my head.

Knives
Blood
Gore

That I like to think I am capable of
but I am not.

I Can't

I'm Cold.
Too cold to get out of bed
to find the pills
to find the alcohol
to find the substance

that I know
will finally make
the thinking stop
and switch the lights off

and I won't be scared
of the images in my head
because there won't be any.

I Can't