Cigarettes entrance us 
because sucking poison through our lips
and letting the smoke puff out of our lungs
looks so much like the fairy tale dragons
that we never saw in real life, 

so we poison ourselves a thousand times over
offer knife sharp smiles when ask why,
hey, didn’t you hear? I wanna be snow white. 

there’s poverty in the way they walk, 
hungry eyes roam across an asphalt jungle 
and get stuck on the wires swinging from 
rooftop to rooftop, so much like pictures 
of a rainforest they saw but never touched, 

so they try to dream leaves onto 
non-existent trees, snickering as they say, 
i’m gonna tarzan across those wires one day, 
just you watch me, 

there's papers scattered around her 
as she dreams up worlds so vast that 
our universe looks more like a marble, 
stars coalescing in her dark hands, 

Tell her that she’s beautiful, 
and watch her smile before 
she devours the compliment up 
lapping at every last honey drop 
at her fingers because she’s 
been starved for so long, 
and what is a girl without 
other people to tell her  
the value that she has? 

Tell her that she’s skinny 
and she will beam before 
looking in the mirror and tracing 
the outline of her ribs with 
her paper fingers, half human 
half ghost, so thin she’s almost gone
hunger was never beautiful, 
this animal eating her up from inside. 

Tell her that she’s hot and 
look at her short skirt like it’s 
the only part of her that matters and she’ll 
shoot you a grin before tugging down 
her dress as a sense of anxiety creeps 
in her mind because everyone knows 
what happens to girls with too-short dresses
walking alone at night, 
grips her keys between her fingers and 

Dear America. 

I don't think you ever loved me, no, 
i lost that illusion a long time ago, 
maybe the people inside you cared a little, 
but you? I don't think so, 

Dear America. 

These countries stuck inside of me 
they're a part of me, i don't think you can see 
that i cannot give one up for you, cannot fight for you
against people who have my blood in their veins, 
this language on their tongue, 
my homeland's dirt on their boots, 
a mother's fear on their gun, 

Dear America. 

Please try to be patient with me, 
I know that you can't see a whole countries history 
written in my eyes, but next time just 
realize before you meddle that it might be justified 
later when they call death to your name, 
it's not because everyone in that country is one 
and the same as their government, no, 
it is because they might have been willing to forgive, 

It was the most 
beautiful shade of 
blue,  

the flag that 
was imprinted on her skin, 
right next to her eyes 
that shone brown. 

And then the 
king that had thrown 
a revolution of hate 
decided that he didn't like the fact
that she wore it so beautifully. 

This is the story of 
a people's rebellion. 
Rebellion. 

Once upon a time,

the king went through the kingdom
and ripped it off people, 
one by one, 
when he decided that they didn't fit
with what he thought was right. 

He looked at the people 
whose flags where still slowly
being drawn on, 
who had chosen it out of love 
or come here out of desperation 
and decided that the way that they 
clashed a little with the other colors
against their skin was 
an abomination and he tore 
the newly growing things off. 

He looked at the people

Art is courage. 

Art is nights tearing at your hair 
because it doesn't sound right 
it doesn't look right. 

Art is stained hands and 
stained clothes and paper stained 
with tears. 

Art is pulling out pieces of 
your heart and dashing them out 
across paper, 
hoping for a good result. 

Art is bleeding fingers 
from practicing for hours, 
is bleary eyes and worn out 
throats. 

Art is pushing until
something breaks, 
until you either give up 
or keep going until your body
bends to the shape you want it to. 

Art is daring to speak the truth, 
is getting locked up because 
people weren't ready for the truth yet, 

Art is challenging a dictator with 
nothing but a microphone, 
a paper and a pen, 
and yet making them look so fragile, 
so afraid. 

Art is forbidden words splashed

Kindergarten sounded like 
small voices singing
together on the bus, 
a brunette next to a blonde. 

First grade tasted like 
ghorme sabzi that my mom makes, 
and the bitterness in my mouth
after the other kids made fun of my 
foreign food. 

Second grade looked like 
cards in a calendar, 
flipping a different one each day, 
the look of polyester on the chalkboard.

Third grade smelled like 
Elmers glue and old magazines, 
the shick shick of the scissors as 
they cut through the shapes. 

Fourth grade felt like 
the rush of adrenaline you get 
when the teacher starts the timer on 
your times tables, racing through
so you could get to the next number. 

Fifth grade was a blur 
of memories and cloudy days, 
fight between friends 
and arguments, 

Sixth grade tasted like 
stale airplane air and 

We were stargazing the other night
when we saw something that wasn't right 
against the starry, starry, lights. 

A train of sixty satellites were 
drifting in the sky that night and 
my father and my cousins complained, 
said it would ruin 

the night sky. 

A lot of people are saying that, 
that this will ruin the night sky. 

And I looked up, 
and I thought....

how beautiful it is to know 
that we are out there, 
that we can go, 
out to the stars and maybe beyond, 
a little movement among the stars, 

and if I look up one day 
and see that the night sky is alive 
I don't think I'll be suprised, 
I'll look up at the stars and smile 
and know that humans are out there. 

Chunks of metal among burning fire, 
crude constructions of wires and lights, 
satellites that shimmer and twirl, 

omnes nos machinis. 
we are all machines. 

whether we want to admit it or not, 
we are all machinges, 
grinding away day to day, 
cogs spinning, 
gears whirring, 
keeping us breathing, 
breathing, 
breathing. 

we are all machines. 

we try and we try to 
keep ourselves upright, 
for as long as we can, 
but even machines fail, 
our hearts skip a beat, 
and we beat a hasty retreat, 
trying to recode the instructions of our genes, 

we are all machines. 

machines break and they fall,
and they work and they crawl, 
they keep trying to fly 
save themselves from the fall, 
building others like themselves 
and looking among the stars 
for other gears and cogs like us, 

we are all machines. 

we bleed motor oil 
and harsh salty tears, 
when out skin breaks, 
our back breaks,