tired

every night

I dream of death

wake up and

the nightmares persist

grief

baba, every day I am⁣

more scared and more emboldened⁣

⁣

I met someone again and again, their⁣

family forced to migrate because of⁣

the bloodlust, the depravity of whiteness⁣

every direction a treacherous path⁣

⁣

where is home⁣

where is home⁣

⁣

what if it is too heavy ⁣

to carry on our shoulders⁣

⁣

you are with me every day, every day⁣

I wish you were here, am relieved that⁣

you’re not, I have so much to tell you⁣

⁣

you asked me once if I prayed, and ⁣

I said no but I was lying, I did and I do⁣

⁣

I pray to Hope and to the hours⁣

before the day wakes up,⁣

I pray to Earth and to the ground⁣

beneath my trembling heart,⁣

I pray to Love and the boundaries⁣

it shapes and reshapes,⁣

I pray to the Unknown and ask⁣

for relief from its hauntings⁣

⁣

And I pray to Death⁣

and I beg, and I beg, and I beg⁣

⁣

and I beg⁣

and I beg⁣

⁣

that if Death must, ⁣

that Death is gentle.⁣

⁣

That on the other side of this,⁣

⁣

That on the side side of this,⁣

we are all free.⁣

⁣

baba, every day I am ⁣

more scared and more emboldened

from Palestine to Pakistan, rise up for liberation, however you can

when our present becomes "history"⁣⁣    

when future generations look back and ask,

"were you part of the change, or complicit"

when you're asked what actions you took every day

to dismantle racism, anti-Blackness, xenophobia, Islamophobia, anti-semitism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, and ableism

will you feel comfortable then saying you

knew better, "felt badly," yet continued to look the other

way? will you feel justified in your silence, in your

priorities, then? all the times you didn't speak up, 

you didn't act up, will they haunt you?

the disconnect between pockets of people I've

met over the last decade is horrifying, from those

who outright defend white supremacy, to those who

know better and remain silent or disconnected, to

those risking death in their attempts to do anything, 

everything that they can to get free, to get us free.

when our present becomes your "history"

when future generations look back and ask,

"were you part of the change, or complicit"

I hope your response is,

"I did everything, I tried everything."

Masking

I can’t find my box of masks.⁣⁣    

⁣⁣    

thin layers I stretch across my face, safety from viruses invisible, tangible, deadly⁣⁣, their presence marked by⁣⁣ absence. who’s in a space, who⁣⁣’s only whispers of memory⁣⁣ now.⁣⁣    

⁣⁣    

Baba, I miss you more than words⁣⁣, I’m⁣ grateful you moved on before⁣⁣ this time of expedited death. ⁣⁣you were worth so much more⁣⁣ than colonization, than forced⁣⁣ migration, than hueless, empty⁣⁣ shells of calloused peoples whose⁣⁣ understanding of relationship⁣⁣ is domination and power over.⁣⁣    

⁣⁣    

I can’t find my box of masks.⁣⁣    

⁣⁣    

I lost it years ago, before⁣⁣ knowing what was inside.⁣⁣ colorful variations of “it’s fine,”⁣⁣ “it’s not a big deal,” “don’t worry⁣⁣ about it,” don’t worry about it⁣⁣ hurting, I know to tend to my wounds, cut by explanations and excuses⁣⁣.   

⁣⁣    

Baba, thank you for seeing me fully, thank you for the comfort⁣⁣ of shared silence when there was ⁣⁣so much we never got to speak of. I wonder what words you’d have for ⁣⁣survival and strength and joy now.⁣⁣ there are so many questions that⁣⁣ linger, sit loudly and heavy in the air,⁣⁣ I hope to ask you when it’s my ⁣⁣time to rest, I think about ⁣⁣ death, every day. every day, I think about death.   

⁣⁣    

I can’t find my box of masks.⁣⁣    

⁣⁣    

and the tears won’t stop flowing,⁣⁣    

and the tears won’t stop flowing,⁣⁣    

and the tears won’t stop flowing.⁣⁣    

⁣⁣    

Baba, I didn’t consent into this world,⁣⁣ its roots in white supremacy,⁣⁣ its proud trunk of hateful ideologies branching out through targeted violence.⁣⁣ you taught me about educated ⁣⁣ignorance, prepared me for people⁣⁣ crafting sophisticated⁣⁣ ways to justify death and oppression,⁣⁣ souls twisted, contorted into cruelty.⁣⁣ my heritage prepared me for “lizzy’s in⁣⁣ a box,” and so is our stolen culture trapped in institutions and algorithms, goat yoga and chai tea and henna freckles.   

⁣⁣    

Baba, I am overwhelmed and frightened, angry and hopeful, I love and miss you. 

 

I can’t find the thin layers to stretch across my heart, protection from members of the death cult of “whiteness.” 

 

Baba, I can’t find my box of masks.

Traverse

they accused us of importing,⁣⁣

apples⁣⁣

⁣⁣

they accused us of importing ⁣⁣

apples, as all those traveling ⁣⁣

from the “other” do, while they⁣⁣

import violence & death cults⁣⁣

in the name of white supremacy⁣⁣

⁣⁣

they accused us of importing⁣⁣

apples, claimed it wasn’t profiling,⁣⁣

said they keep it fair, rotate ⁣⁣

through peoples as they please⁣⁣

⁣⁣

they accused us of importing⁣⁣

apples, and you know what’s ⁣⁣

funny I just made an apple out⁣⁣

of earth and these two hands⁣⁣

and this heritage born out of ⁣⁣

forced migration, forced famine,⁣⁣

forced resistance and you, you⁣⁣

wouldn’t have caught it because⁣⁣

while you’re secure in violence⁣⁣

me and mines are secured by ⁣⁣

⁣⁣

love⁣⁣

⁣⁣

they accused us of importing⁣⁣

apples, well technically me and⁣⁣

mines curry, but his apples, and⁣⁣

I asked, when’s the last time you⁣⁣

acknowledged your import of⁣⁣

spiritual desperation and screened ⁣⁣

it through x-rays and your mythical ⁣⁣

borders and your appetite for violence⁣⁣

⁣⁣

they accused us of importing⁣⁣

apples, well jokes on you, I ⁣⁣

exported a fruit bowl for a ⁣⁣

⁣⁣

beloved⁣⁣

⁣⁣

made, handled with care across⁣⁣

hearts more expansive than what⁣⁣

you seem to be capable of, and⁣⁣

it should, it should frighten you⁣⁣

because we’re not talking about⁣⁣

apples anymore, we’re talking⁣⁣

about entire orchards of care

⁣⁣

they accused us of importing⁣⁣

apples, because an apple a day⁣⁣

keeps the doctor away and care⁣⁣

and connection are a threat to⁣⁣

their sickly, decaying empire⁣⁣

⁣⁣

they accused us of importing⁣⁣

apples, and little did they know⁣⁣

the radical love we traveled with,⁣⁣

tucked away in every pocket⁣⁣

of our existence on shared earth⁣⁣

⁣⁣

they accused us of importing,⁣⁣

apples⁣⁣

We Were Always Ready for You

"I believe western individualism is killing us. I believe that we shouldn't have to be in romantic love to be cared for." ~ Alok Vaid-Menon

I believe in (im)possible things. 

I believe in the flowers, the birds, the way the moon gently holds me.

I believe that there's nothing more critical than you. Than me. Than us. 

I believe that hope is a muscle. 

I believe that we must rest before we're tired. 

I believe that "love" is four letters in English. 

I believe that love is beyond language. 

I believe in the connectors. 

I believe in the ants, the bees, the way vines build bridges. 

I believe that there's nothing more sacred, more painful than being of everywhere, of nowhere, of the places in between. 

I believe that our universe is expansive. 

I believe in abundance. 

I believe that yaara is as much lover as it's homegirl, in a place, and a space, and a tongue recovering from theft, violence, and imperialism.

I believe that recovery is a process with unknown milestones. 

I believe in life after life after life. 

I believe that if I return as an old tree, maybe, maybe then I'll know what it'd like to feel rooted. 

I believe that air plants grow and stretch despite not knowing their home. 

I believe in anything, everything that isn't this affair and obsession with violence. 

I believe that generational spiritual desperation is real. 

I believe that community care is natural. 

I believe that connectivity will birth us. 

I believe that we should be in love with one another.

content warning suicide

I daydream about Death more

often than I'm allowed to admit.

it's not that she's my ideal type, 

but there is something so alluring
about her eternal rest, about her
mystery, about the hope that a
final breath or not breathing at all 
offers as a contrast to the sticky
sweet poison of this violent society. 

"All 6 trains will be running 
express due to a customer 
injury at Grand Central."

"Please head downstairs."

"Hey how's it going? :)"

not well, I am drowning, and when
I ask for a life raft I'm offered hope
and prayers that never amounted to
much then and never amount to much
now, how is this a fucking life raft?

I cannot be the boat, the buoy, the
stars, and the ocean, I cannot be
like this much longer, I cannot be
like this much longer, I cannot be

I took the 6 to the 4 because of a
customer injury, pressed tight in
between neighbors I may never 
see again, transferred to the W 
that came right on time only for 
the train to roll over a bump, and

I wondered if it was me, this bump, 
travelers more concerned about 
their commute to whatever next
checkpoint of exploitation and pain
awaited them, more concerned about
survival than the passing over of...

I took the 6 to the 4 because of
someone's willingness to sacrifice me, 
and those around them, for what
perceived temporary safety from violence?
knowing that if this bump wasn't me, and

it was you, you yourself wouldn't stop, 
wouldn't pause, wouldn't inquire.
you'd take the 6 to the 4 to the W.
you'd keep yourself safe, because
"we" is only as meaningful as the
applied value of community care.

I daydream about Death more
often than I'm allowed to admit.

it's not that she's my ideal type, 
but there is something so clear
in the safety she offers, about her
values, about the hope that a
final breath or not breathing at all 
offers as a contrast to the sticky
sweet poison of this violent society.

AR-15

names rolling around like 

marbles on my tongue

there's no Q for queer in

my phone directory, no V for

this violence or that violence

is a threat to her to his to their

safety. are they alive are they

alive are they alive are they alive

are they alive.

mapping out constellations

of who to text who to call who

to write who to scour social

media to determine last known

point of communication. I 

never predicted a square 

image with white block letters

would be a love language. are

they alive are they alive are

they alive are they alive

are they alive.

since 1982, the majority of 

mass shooters are white. the

majority of mass shooters are men. 

we talk about generational trauma

but what of generational spiritual

desperation? what of those who

are taught violence and hate as

"culture" or "religion" or "politics?"

what of all the times when we

see the signs and choose to 

say nothing. if death is the

outcome, and death is the risk

are we alive.

La Luna

the nightmares persist

but the scales rebalance

towards hope. they say

if you stand by water for

thirty minutes then your

troubles will float away, 

carried off by the tides,

overseen by the moon. last

night she looked so full, but

might not have been. every

time I see her this bold, this

sure of herself, I think back

to that one night in El Salvador

when the dam broke and they

held me. they named the violence, 

and they held me. they gently 

pulled away the bottle, and 

they held me. they shouted my

name in the dark, and they

held me. they found a smooth

edge on a rock on a mountain, 

and they held me.

and for that night, underneath
the moon, I am grateful. for
I've never felt as alone at night since.

Call and Response

Perhaps,

we should love ourselves 

so fiercely, 

that when others see us

they know exactly

how it should be.

~ Rudy Francisco ~

Perhaps, 

if we loved each other

so fiercely, 

when others see us, 

they believe exactly 

how it could be done.

~                       ~

ngl. I burst out in tears at the

thought of stepping back

into everything today / 

tomorrow. stepping back

into spaces where practicing

consent and boundaries

feels so overwhelming. 

stepping back into the less

visible work, the care work, 

the after-care work the work

that isn't glorified and sexy. 

stepping back into naming

the quiet part out loud, 

rooted in hope that people

genuinely want something

more well and more whole

than all of this. rooted in

anger of the violence many

have inherited. stepping

back into feeling like people

only value me for

unwavering strength, like my 

vulnerability and humanity

are often afterthoughts.

this last week I practiced 

stepping in. stepping into a 

partnership with someone 

who lives their values, 

beyond the chants beyond 

the marches. stepping into

being perceived through the

lens of radical love. stepping

into every day care, nature's 

shades of green, and birds

who warn each other of

storms ahead. stepping into

softness, into the reason

why I keep stepping back in.

خانہ بدوش

خانہ بدوش

"Coming to Urdu from Farsi, ‘khaana badosh’ quite literally translates to describe people who carry their home on their shoulders (Khana = home and Dosh = shoulder), like nomads and gypsies moving from place to place." 

(Words in Urdu, 2021)

when you carry home on your shoulders

when you carry home on your shoulders

when you carry home on your shoulders

when you want to go home

when you carry home on your shoulders

when you spend a lifetime refining your core, not

because whiteness said your soft belly was a 

weakness, but to support your spine in sitting

straighter, standing taller than you're supposed to

when you carry home on your shoulders

when you know home as the deep breaths you take

to gather yourself in-between moments

when you carry home on your shoulders

when you carry home on your shoulders

when you carry home on your shoulders

when you carry home on your shoulders

the people and spaces where you can set down 

the home you carry on your shoulders

that is where you go in life when you want to go

home.

خانہ بدوش

Lizzy's in a box.

the British Empire

stole so much from 

South Asia. stole

wealth, healthy, joy.

they stole lives. they

stole lives. they stole

lives. they stole lives.

and white

supremacist

imperialist nations, 

including the US, 

continue to steal. 

steal futures, 

resources, water.

they steal lives. they

steal lives. they steal

lives. they steal lives.

while Pakistan is

drowning, Mississippi

has no water. while

South Asian families

drown, Black and Indigenous

families are in a 

drought.

because greed is

more important. 

because privileged

comfort is important.

because white settler

colonial states and

their supremacy

wrought violence,

taught violence, 

brought violence

upon us.

united states of violence ii

we don't bring food we

bring boxes of light blue

face shields, and we check

temperatures she told me I

ran warm but I think I fight

red hot or sometimes I freeze

in the deepest blues that

drown out the sun and I sink

into a safety rectangle to rest

we don't bring food we

bring boxes of light blue

face shields, and we check

temperatures she told me

about surviving about survival

about yesterday's memory

about tomorrow's fear

about a moment of silence

we don't bring food we

bring boxes of light blue

face shields, and we check

temperatures she told me

she wants to walk home, 

she wants to be home,

she wants to live.

we don't bring food. we

bring boxes of light blue

face shields. and we check

temperatures. she told me

my safety is bound in hers.

united states of violence

there were 15 mass shootings in

the last 10 days

I usually leave my apartment by 9 am

to meet my team

I can't remember when I last ate

today I took the 7

there's 6 of us organizing safety

workshops for hundreds

I just needed 5 minutes of breathing

for me to not disassociate, to be

able to string together more than

3 words - I love you

I love you I love you

just in case I leave you

I take 2 trains to safety

I take 1 train to my partner

sometimes I count 0 to 10

and back to know if I'm awake.

I don't always remember the

nightmares but I hope for the dreams.

"be soft and kind but take no shit" ~ the fearless queer

I used to think I was
porous through and
through, until I
became velvet
wrapped in barbed
wire, an arts and
crafts project born
out of continued
necessity to survive

(in)visibility

the work is also in our offices, in our

classes, in our bodegas, in our homes, in our

relationships, in our selves.

it's not recorded in photos or videos or

social media. it's not glorified, is oftentimes 

difficult, and can be hard to discern if it

makes a difference.

it is too frequently gendered, too often

deprioritized for the fight "over there," too

often silently deadly, too often invalidated

oftentimes by the same people chasing the

perception of fickle external validation from

the bloodthirsty crowds of social media.

to care workers. to queer and femme folks.

to those who move behind the scenes. to

those who skill share and support, to those

who are navigating balancing self and

community care. to those who speak up. to

those who speak up. to those who speak up.

sending muck love and care and hope your

way. may you have spaces or people or

experience within which you can breathe

for moments before diving under water

again. may you know that being asked to

scream while under water and not drown, is

more than anyone should have to withstand.

may your smile be as warm as the sun on

your face, and may we all eventually find a 

land together where we can rest amongst

sunflowers and the morning dew on grass.

khaana badosh

to carry home

on your shoulders

is a weight and a gift

a grief and a joy

an absence and 

a recollection

of the day that

formed the bricks

that constituted shelter

Community

i am crumbling

under the sharp increase

in care work, 

in holding space and layers, 

i am crumbling

i am crumbling

shocked and relieved by

those who see me

who sees me?

who set carnivorous cravings 

for flesh and heart aside

who are tending to root rot, 

pruning 

burning 

it ashes to ashes,

dust to dust,

because forest fires are

rebirth and violence in 

tension with one another.

whilst others are all too

comfortable posing amongst

the flowers, plucking petals of

are they worthy 

and they are not

are they worthy

and they are not

in isolated views of a world

that is safe, that is well, is

real, is soft, for all of us.

Fuck Your Silence

last night, I dreamed I had not been able to excise my bio mother from my life. the white woman who physically, mentally, and emotionally harmed, harms my brown, Asian, Muslim dad. re-entering reality took conscious fact checks of the story in my head. she no longer knows my address. she no longer is in contact. she no longer has access to me. but she does have access to him, and with my oxygen mask on by threads some days, I have little breathing room to offer.

the gaseous nightmare that filled yesterday's air felt like a fever dream. a lucid dream? a, I could get lost in this and find myself disassociating in the bathroom again, dream. a, refrain from panicking and asking friends, family if they have self-defense tools on them because one push was not enough to pull bystanders into honoring her life, dream. a, everybody claims Asian people are white, dream, but when I continue on in this daydream I scream in the void about U.S. imperialism, and the Chinese Exclusion Act, and Japanese internment camps, and the Muslim ban, and dying Filipino healthcare works, and nuclear bombs and the spillover carnage of war, and terrorizing SoutheastAsia and quietly deporting Cambodian refugees, and denied visas, and green cards, and I run out of oxygen because I ripped my mask off and SCREAMED. I SCREAMED. I modeled it after a myth, that Asian people are excluded from the violence of white supremacy, of racism, of xenophobia, of the patriarchy, of homophobia and transphobia, of capitalism. and it landed as softly as when my dad confided in me, that your favorite car company forced him to go into the belly of the gator, where half of the conference attendees contracted Covid, and Florida was maskless in its hatred for bodies as rich and as soft as the earth. and that space isn't alone, I remember the daydream of the Lonestar state after 9/11, or was it yesterday when Texas decided that it still hated Muslims. I'm relieved everyone in the synagogue survived. But it would be unsure to assume the Islamophobic carnage that is to come next is not violence, as well.

it's my white cousin proudly hating immigrants, yet crawling to me to request my Pakistani dad employ him at a Japanese company. it's being named after an elder, an aunt, inheriting the lineage of a family, and being called "Peace in the Middle Anees." it's feeling anxious around border patrol, and TSA, and stepping in front of my dad when a white man thought he might possibly get away with laying hands on him. it's Kasey's dad consistently blaming his discontent on those people over there, and tokenizing my dad to sidestep consequences. it's an ex calling me when Bin Laden was assassinated and asking if my family was "grieving." it's the number of white people who assume I agree with their racist, xenophobic bullshit because they're used to their peers doing so. it's the people who look like my friends and family being stalked by the state, incarcerated, deported. Murdered.

it's somewhere between love and desperation of closing my eyes and making sure I can still see the shape of their hearts, the warmth of their smiles, hear the melody of their names. that the joy, the power, the song of those sounds may be etched into a record that never dares remix with, 

"The victim, whose identity has been withheld while officials notify her family, died at the station."

and I think about them. the people who stand by. watch. in real life, in real time. I know they're also the ones to look the other way from their racist family member, or their bro who assaults femmes, or their boss who insists on people putting their health on the line for their profit. they're invested in the performance, but the moment risk enters the room they decide they no longer are a part of this play. they're the ones who describe anti-Asian hate crimes resulting in death as "stuff" and casually share articles of trauma with no grief, just links with bodies, and ages, and names they try to claw into but lack the gentleness on their tongue to pronounce, all the while feeling they should be on the megaphone, directing this call and that response trying to convince us mass death is inevitable, normal. they'll know arigato grande's lyrics, humming thank you, next she'd like to try orientalist on for size when she outgrew appropriating Black culture, order Chinese food on genocidal holidays, but ask Asian elders to repeat their requests for support over and over and over again to prove to them it's necessary. I think about these people, who assume Asians are a monolith, a one class fits all, those other people over there. the ones who love curry, but the hate the responsibility of community care. in real time, in real life. the people who stand by. I think about them.

last night I dreamed, yesterday was another nightmare.

I ripped off my mask, my soul contorted and screamed.

it is a myth it is a lie it is propaganda it is a false god it is spiritual desperation that violence is normalized everywhere.

it has to be possible it has to be true it has to be gospel it has to be ancestral that his food, her hands, their growth, are markers of radical love resisting oppression from anywhere.

To Be the Child of the One Who Moved Away

means not having the context
for that one time

that the laugh, the inside joke

is rooted in

it tastes like... missing out

on the recipe meant to pass

hand over hand

in a kitchen continents

and languages away

it sounds like elders

who tell you you'll never

understand their brother

or cousins who mention

there was no way your

father's siblings could

have known about the abuse

he and you faced alone

on stolen land built out

by stolen lives within borders

created by people who

hate the tones of the earth in his skin

I recently learned that the shape

of "خانہ بَدوشْ" is the weight of

carrying home on your shoulders

I can't imagine a space so free

of that gravity

that I can float across the

distance of WhatsApp to say

any version of I love you and I

fight for you, but I also fight for me

because I did not consent

to this life between bordered lands

and I sometimes wonder what

it would be like to consent out

of carrying home on my shoulders

to rest

to be loved, not as a noun born

out of expectation but a verb

an adjective a synonym to creating

the context

for that one time

that our shared laugh, our shared joke

is rooted in

to be the child of the one who moved away

is a curse and a blessing I

would not choose to share

with anyone

to carry home on your shoulders

is a curse and a blessing I 

would not choose to share

with anyone

-----

every year the holidays remain a sucker punch to the gut. from the intact families wove've invited me in, to my solo binge watching sessions soaking in the quiet of being alone. I love my Pakistani family terribly. ferociously. longingly. confusingly. I love them across continents, countries, cultures, cultures, languages, and the ways in which white European colonization poisoned the lands across the world that we live on. I've both been told that I'm loved, to reach out at any time, and that I'll never fully understand my own dad, that the family didn't know my white bio mother harmed both of us because you can't hear abuse on a phone call, or through the emails she monitored, or in the body language around a table of home cooked food. I am loved as a noun, as Kariem's daughter, as accomplishments. as the ripples on the surface of water. 

I long for, I'm dying to be loved as a verb, as an adjective, as a synonym, as sometimes I trip over air and I struggle to stay mentally and emotionally alive, as a wave, as a whole ocean of mosaics of thoughts and feelings and experiences and personality. and I feel like I no longer know how to bridge the distance. the wright of carrying home on my shoulders feels like I'm treading water beyond where my tippy toes can find the floor. how is it possible to hold this much buoyancy, to maintain grace, to continue trying when it feels like any life rafts have already floated into the horizon. 

to be the child of the one who moves away, is to share entire bodies of water with the ones you love with no guarantee your wakes will ever more than collide with each other, with no guarantee you'll ever truly be able to understand the shape of the love for the one who moved away.