i have never really felt enough of anything,

just mere bombardments in the

pit of my stomach

relinquishing all things glorious 

and gut wrenching 

when my mother asks me, 

“what do you want to be?”

i pretend A WRITER isn’t spat out 

in number two pencil

and casting a phosphorescence 

of sincere afterglow where my veins lay

adjacent to the ultramarine sky  

instead i say, “a fighter”

because that’s what we all want, innit?

to bleed straight out our veins a fighter?

not to have our graves drenched in perspiration and 

remembrance of what we could’ve been

IM SORRY I'M NOT A DOCTOR

i have never really felt enough of anything 

just the bile rising in my throat 

as hypocritical threats are sent my way 

via spit 

i'm sorry that my culture 

and religion 

are a threat to your very existence 

and that my father's beard

is symbolic to the terror 

happening around the world 

i'm sorry that i'm not allowed 

to wear my hijab

yet you have it wrapped around your head

as if it's the new style. 

as if it's a trend. 

as if your pale complexion 

would do it justice 

as if my prophet (pbuh)

wasn't put on this earth 

to teach us about the very 

thing i have never felt so sure about - 

islam. 

I AM MUSLIM. 

and

never have i felt so uncomfortable 

and disrespected 

when i am asked to take 

the very thing i hold closest to me off -

my hijab. 

and when i'm in class, learning about 

the tragedy 

that is september 11

for the one billionth time 

i try to pretend that i don't feel

people staring at me 

that i don't hear people giggling 

and whispering my name 

along with the overused “terrorist”. 

oh, okay. my hijab is oppression,

but your racial slurs are not? 

and when when when when

when 

when 

when 

when 

when

will you believe me

when i

say that nobodyforced me to 

wear the hijab 

and that it was mydecision? 

that i wanted to be closer to God?

and that if you can find 

another religion, 

another idea, and thing morepeaceful 

and accepting 

than islam, you can come to me 

personally and let me know. 

but i'd bet you'd come to my door 

empty handed, tears of frustration 

escaping your remorseful eyes. 

and when you ask if you can convert,

you can bet my 

faith in God 

that i'd tell you no. 

most stories begin with

once upon a time

but this one begins with

I AM A WRITER

and

I AM A GIRL

I AM MUSLIM

and ends with

I AM HUMAN

(so please treat me like i am, will you?)