A STORY IN THE PERSPECTIVE OF THE LOVE INTEREST

the director says ​start​, and you come to life like an automaton. a blink, and

I am from

the expressions of my people

flattened nose and slits for eyes

leathery skin and cricks in my back

each feature of mine

a reflection of my family heritage

Once upon a time Goliath fell.

They built buildings on his body

and David walked away without looking back

didn’t know his victory

until he moved

opened the door

to have his pebble drop at his feet

There’s a simple liberating joy

In being different,

Being obtuse,

Having that little bit of self outside of normality,

Askew

People will either embrace it,

Or reject it.

Some will revel and thrive in their unlikeness,

What does it tell you?

Does it tell you what lies in your heart?

It tells you what lies on the outside,

That’s for certain.

It tells you how other people perceive you.

How they label you.

You have feel the weight of those labels.

Okay,

I’m going to tell them.

It’s been weighing on me for awhile.

Most of my friends know,

And they should know too.

But I’m scared.

So

So

Scared.

This darkness inside my heart

Residing in my pitiless mind

A fuel to a fire of ever-burning odium

That cutting sarcasm of such cruelty

The cold cynical aura that never abates

What is it that filled me with such hate?

I’m from chalky hair,

Here, pretty hair and curls,

I’m from leotards and spandex,

Here, pretty tops and jean shorts,

Where I’m from, new skills

Here, 9 x 24

I’m from, rug burns and big bruises,

Here, paper cuts

i am your (empty

dead-eyed cashier, mechanically

ringing up your nachos and popcorn;

have a great day!



weekend plans and giggling friends,

i am Maslow’s slave

face blur past, i ring up your purchase

Woman.

Care-taker, life-giver,

nurturer, chef, doormat.

Woman.

Raised to believe my gender put

me on the bottom.

I am to please, not to be pleased.

I am the inferior, the weak, the

soft, the submissive.

sing in me, O Muse, the plight of the second generation american;

she is a girl with brown eyes and skin and hair,

with $300 Beats that match her silk headscarf affair.

she brings “exotic” food to school,

and cringes when lentils get on her skirt of tulle.

Everyone thinks I am super happy

But I’m not...

Everyone thinks I just don’t have any problems

But I do...

Everyone thinks I am just happy with myself

But I’m not...

Everyone thinks that I can just make everything in my life okay

There’s a girl that I see sometimes.

She pops up from time to time.

Day to day.

She’s a lot of things.

God, she’s beautiful.

And, isn’t she just so funny?

I grow from a place

where emerald rain

pounds against the

land, painting the

hills bright green. I

paint, too, hoping to

leave my mark on the

world.

I hate diaspora poetry

as much as the next

fed-up immigrant

All that bullshit

about “lives stained

with honey and turmeric”

and “the colonizer

cutting my tongue with

aluminum shears”

is utterly boring

The night before my first day of sixth grade, I studied the piece of fabric laid out on my bed with uncharacteristic placidity. It was no work of art; plain cotton fabric, dyed black, with a single strip of black lace for adornment.

Fidgeting my leg against a familiar school desk, the dreadful anticipation always washes over me while listening to roll call on the first day of school.

Names. Titles given to us at birth by someone with no idea of who we are or what we'll become, they are iron-clad chains bound to our lifetimes by those who want us to be something great.

There are occasions where I zone out, and during this period of deep thought, I find myself staring at a girl. I’ve seen this girl multiple times before.

lace up your sneakers and roll up your jeans: your jeans 

are blue and worn in the knees because they’re your favorite

and the laces on your sneakers used to be white but now 

they are tinted brown from the dirt of the earth you walk through.

50% Polish, 50% Russian 

I thought.

It all changed in Rehovot.

I flipped through the book.

The dining table crowded with voices.

“Tracing our roots” He said

Turning the page.

The faces of those like me 

Pakistan and America 

Eastern and western

but they feel like the north and south poles

I’m immersed in the red silk dresses embroidered by hand and I’m in love with the ability to roam alone across this land

Unsure.

About the question, or the world?

Unsure whether to answer truthfully, or to fabricate a more intriguing narrative.

Unsure what the question implies: Fears,

(Spiders, bad grades, falling out of love)

Bounty brand paper towels; you know it by name

“The quick picker upper”, thirst pockets

Outnumbering the leading brands not only in price

But in absorbency

Who would have thought that a simple household object

I am the center of the universe

My problems are complex

My thoughts are intricate, my experiences unique

Surely no one else can live this way?

What a cruel realization it is

Such a curious paradox of existence

In Iran I am a rebel. I show my hair. In Brazil I am exotic. The nomads left me their yellow eyes to search the desert sand. Where I live, there is no sand. In America I am my age. Stuck in the in-between where nothing lasts. I am the enemy.

The cheerleader who always holds a book

And the agnostic with an avid church attendance

Someone so silent and simultaneously outspoken

And the fiery spirit which silence most benefits

Her identity, though contradictory, belongs to her

I wake up

Brush my teeth

Then look into the mirror.

I see a kid

Who looks confused

About his true self.

I don’t know who.

But it isn’t me.

I self-reflect

And I gaze deep

To try to forget the secrets that I keep

I bind myself

And hide my chest

All day long until I rest

I stay at home

And lay in bed

Trying to drown out what you said

Madeline.

The first name I was ever given

A symbol of my mother’s overbearing need to go her way or no way

Her way had no meaning

It was simply a name she thought was pretty