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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.