please, (I can't breathe) 

i don't know if any of us 
have been able to grieve in a while, 
i sit in my room and watch the country
go up in flames, as it turns out, 
the revolution is televised. 

the cops don't show up to out protest
because we're a small town, but I do see
an elderly man flip off a ten year old 
holding a sign, 

nobody wants to hurt anymore, 
i look at my hand and i am scared 
that a crumpled 20 dollar bill could be there 
instead of a pen, 

i watched a cop kill somebody
and still they're saying it wasn't a murder, 
it's never a murder if the murderer is white, 
you can't realise what power is until 
you kill someone and the world says it's ok, 
he had underlying conditions, 
it's just one mistake. 

please ( i can't breathe) 

sometimes i wish we could build 

i have always liked pretty things, 
so i painted over my body in acrylics.

i have always wanted a corner bed so i moved it, 
there are fairy lights around me 
pretending to be a halo like i was every good enough, 

there's a chain of little purple pillows with bells attached to them 
hanging from my window that was given to me by someone i don't care about anymore, 
but i used to, 

i have a heart shaped pillow that i got because it's lopsided and
i was afraid no one would love it. 

there's a little bench on the end of a trail near my house 
and i like to sit there and pretend i am like the flowers, 

i sit inside my room and i try not to cry

i like wearing skirts but i don't want to be called a slut 
so i lock them up in my closet until i am free 

i think that i think too much when i turn off all of my lights 
i want things to go back to normal. 

I was never any good with writing beautiful things,
so I have to resort to painting tragedies.
I was never any good with watercolors. 

My hair is growing long, 
and I wonder if this is the end of the world. 
The tall pine trees growing outside of my house beg to differ. 
They have seen the end of the world many times and 0 out of those times has it actually ended. 
I thank them and go on my way. 

Writing is so hard, sometimes. 
I sit and think and think and yet not a single beautiful thing can pass from my pen.
Perhaps they were taken up by the flowers outside. 

Maybe poetry is what nature needs to grow and 
they've been taking all they need from my body as I lie in the midday sun.
I would have been happy to share. 

I am not sad. I am simply resigned. I've been inside for five weeks,
but it does not feel like a lifetime, in fact, it feels like a terrifyingly short moment. 

i hold honey in my tea and hope. hope is strangely like honey these days it never rots no matter how long we keep it in a dusty cupboard. i look outside and sparrows are singing and i think to myself if the world is wonderful then maybe we shouldn't be part of it. I think and think maybe that is my problem maybe I should be loving or doing instead of thinking but there is not much to do inside of a small house there is so much to love inside of this small house. I stare out the window and i pretend to scream, to release. I used to think it would be wonderful to be able to fly, so far from people, but now i think i have had enough of being lonely for a lifetime. saving the world is not how i pictured it, there are more small moments and long silences no exploding cars i guess if this is how the world ends then at least we were quiet at least we breathed in and out together, at least there are fish in Venice again, i hold honey in my teacup and i hope.

the story of my people 
is a tragedy, will drip with sadness
like a poets pen,

how could a land of poetry 
be anything but a tragedy, where the 
sky opens up and pours like a wound
like tears from a mothers face 
onto an unmarked grave. 

Amrika, the three syllables of their 
misfortunes, it tastes like the bitterness of 
dark chocolate when the sweet has faded, 
sticking to the back of teeth, 

i did not know that a string of countries could hold
so much pain, pain that sits in the souls
of every one of us, a gaping hole where hope used to lay, 

i watch the news and yet again,
our bleeding hearts are being help up to to the world
like prizes, and i want to tell you, 

begone, amreekai, you were never wanted here,
if only white hands could keep to themselves, 

but we still find your fingerprints inside the 

We watch the news and 
fear. 

There are angry tears 
a lot, nowadays. 

Being an Iranian 
in America is terrifying 
sometimes, 

knowing that both the countries
you are a part of hate each other
poisons you from within.

My mother prays for the people
who are detained at the border
who share our stories, 

share our features,

share our country.

My father prays for our family,
for all the people left behind,
who share our faces,

share our blood,

share our love. 

I pray for ourselves because 
they taught us what happened during
World War II and

you can love the U.S.

but not trust it. 

I never realized how quickly this country
could change its mind about you, 
but then the travel ban happened, 
and now this, 

my people are not criminals, 

Justice is not blind, 

justice knows the colors
painted onto our skin, 

justive knows the way 
men look at your dress, 

justice is familiar with
the way they twist your name,

justice has never been 
blind. 

I want to tell you 
about real justice, 

about feet pounding in the streets
so strongly that the men in their cold castles
feel it in their very bones, 

about the burn of tear gas 
as it tears through your lungs and 
the bullets that tear through the air, 

about the chants that rattle through
your body until your throat grows hoarse,
power flowing through your body 

about the trash can fires in the streets, 
and the crackling flames you see in 
peoples eyes,

about the 50 people that disappeared
and how you don't trust unmarked cars now, 

let me tell you a tale 

white space is suffocating

i cannot tell you the first time 
i felt i was different. 

in fact, the inherent privelige of 
american white people is to be able 
to remember when they first felt out of joint, 
as if all their bones didn't quite 
fit in their skin. 

what i can tell you, 
is that one day i looked 
in the mirror 

and then at the american girls
surrounding me
and decided i was ugly. 

at some point 
i decided that i wanted 
to bleach my hair and 
straighten it 

and rub down my nose 
with a rock so it looked more 
like theirs or shave my legs 
so i had less hair, 

these (american white half irish white swedish 
my ancestors came over on the mayflower blond
blue eyed british) girls 
didn't know what they were doing. 

but the thing about white space is, 

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,