I say I'm a Muslim, but I can't tell anymore.
I can't tell from what goes in my mouth,
what comes out and hits you on the cheek
worse than a slap, harder than a mere insult.
I'm outraged, but what reason do I have?
On the outside I could be anyone,
and I usually am.
Sometimes I am Puerto Rican, Lebanese, or Black--
a child asked me once, and I just smiled back.

How sweet would it be to take every crayon from the box,
even now that the numbers have multiplied and
what was once simple 8, 12, 24, 36,
has exploded into a million colors with a million names,

to crush them into bitty pieces and swirl the mixture with water;
make it all into One.

so that if we hate another
(what other?)
we just hate ourselves.

I say I'm a Muslim, and I know I am
because when I give up all my frustrations and
my toddler tantrums, and I even give up yoga,
or rather it gives me up, thankfully so,
when I injure my back: I'm grateful for that.
What a knowing presence God is to take away that which harms
and restore that which fulfills.

But even to those who are still hurting
(and I often am)
there are these small remembrances that come
between this onset of tears and the next.
Whether the sun peers through the dusty blinds,
the ones you need to clean again--so soon,
and you see the light stream through, faintly at first,
until you are forced to open your eyes,
to remove yourself from the hate you've stewed in:
how simple is that?

I say I'm a Muslim, and it's a choice
I make every day or avoid until the next day,
even though that day may not be easily given.
And I forget that.
But when I see life slip away from young lives, old lives,

lives not yet born

then I have to remember
that I do not have the answers,
and every time I try to be dictator of my destiny
I fail miserably, miserably, miserably.

And now that I wrote this poem
and I felt myself think, no, truly feel for the first time in a week,
that my robotic expression has melted into a frown that stands
a chance at becoming a smile.

Now that I am human I am a Muslim.
Not perfectly so, but decidedly so.

(In memory Deah Shaddy Barakat, Yusor Mohammad Abu-Salha, and Razan Mohammad Abu-Salha)

RIP Deah Barakat.  RIP Yusor Abu-Salha.  RIP Razan Abu-Salha.
the three muslim victims  of chapel hill shooting







because **Muslim lives also matters

Selife, Skype, Of Mice & Men, and so much more.
Those are a few things to describe my sister,
We're weird crazy and funny,
Always obsessing over our favorite bands.

She's always there to pick me back up,
When I manage to fall on my face,
If I don't think I can manage,
She's the force that slaps me across the face,
Making me snap out of it.

Music is my calling,
She's known that since the beginning,
She always hears me singing,
And tells me that I will be able to get where I want to go.

She's the Alan Ashby to my Austin Carlile,
The Alex Gaskarth to my Jack Barakat,
The Kellin Quinn to my Vic Fuentes.

Other people might not get what I'm about,
But I know she'll always be there when I want to throw myself off a bridge.
When the lyrics I want to write just won't come.

No matter how many boys break my heart,
Or how many labels turn me down,
She's always going to be right by my side,
To turn that frown around,
And push me towards the finish line.

There's no one quite like my sister,
And I hope she knows,
That I wouldn't have made it this far,
Without her.