It’s an identity crisis!

The mental image of who I am

Shred into 3 slices;

First slice- American

Second slice- Mexican

Third slice- Tunisian.

It’s an identity crisis!

My brain’s resisting the downpour

of uncertainty and disconnect

but my heart’s being wrung in my hands,

gushing with the Tunimexican blood,

and left out to dry on the scorching lands

I wish I wasn’t born on.

It’s an identity crisis!

I carry the flags of 3 nations in my veins

yet only 2,

sometimes one

protrude on my face and tongue.

It’s an identity crisis!

So much pride for being from these 3 beautiful nations,

yet forlorn arises for being

so close,

so infatuated,

so familiar,

with the culture

yet so

distant,

infatuated,

and unattuned.

I get congratulated

for carrying these

3 states within me.

But I wish people would one day see

I am just as an alien in these 2 beautiful cultures

like them.

And that’s the part that

always, siempre, dimah

that makes my heart bleed out a little more,

my eyes pouring and pouring behind closed doors.

Yeah, I'm finna stand

here and watch you burn.

You bitch, that's what you deserve

for drowning me in an ocean

of insecurity and somberness

for almost a whole goddamn year.

I must confess,

I don't care if the flames of my

bitter and spiteful truth swallow you up.

You

deserve

it.

You ruined me.

You were the opressor who made

me drown into the murky depths of a teal ocean,

but you were also the helpless victim

who called out my name

but did not

jump in the ocean

to try and find me.

So fuck you.

April 17th, 2020, 2:37 AM

I'm sorry God.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

Just let it all end

before my best friend

leaves me behind

to soak up the Cali sun.

Let it all be done

so I can have one more crazy night filled with

fun

with her.

Let it be done

before she leaves,

and before the stitches I sewed her heart with come undone.

Let this pandemic end

before I lose the girl who's lend

me her hand for almost 3 years.

Let it be over

before my smiles become nothing but

salty, watery tears.

Please God.

She means so much to me...

I'm afraid to have her hand let

go of mine.

Because she is the one

who walked me through the stop

and go signs of life.

Why,

after all these months,

are you still after me?

There is nothing of you

I want to see

on my phone.

I don't want your apologies,

I don't want your imploring for forgiveness,

I don't want your shallow attempts to rebuild

what was never there.

Without you, I was drifting into a life

without a goddamn care.

And here you are.

Again.

I don't want to become your best friend

I don't want to be your savior to defend

I don't want to extend my hand and let it lend.

And I know, you covet for that.

Your insatiable desire to become everything you think I need and want

are the same things that stab you like malevolent taunts.

The acknowledging that you'll never get there.

And the knowing that I'll never be pleased

or content

or at least ecstatic

with anything you try and do for me.

I know Death. I know it well.

How can I not know who Death is?

The figure who crept over my father’s dying, but determined, fighting body and trailed a bony finger down his chest as he smirked, watching my father slip before me with content.

“Baba, Baba, Baba!” I murmured, my fingers curling into his feeble, limp ones.

A small chuckle emerged from Death and I watched it put a thin, black leather half finger gloved hand on Baba’s chest.

Baba stopped breathing.

His eyes shut gently and his hands fell open. I blinked once, twice, thrice, trying to play it off as a figment of my imagination.

Baba’s chest did not rise.

Baba’s hand did not tremble.

Baba’s eyes did not open again.

Baba is dead.

Gone.

“No, no, no, Baba...” the tears were ready to fall out any moment, but I resisted them.

I wanted to see the bastard who took my father.

It was a cloaked figurine in an ebony robe, with a black bandana concealing his mouth and nose. From what I could see of its face, it had dark eyebags that looked like they were permanently etched under its eyes. Its eyes were a mysterious cloud grey, ones that seemed so beautiful and precious for a grotesque, apathetic, and disconsolate thing. They didn’t suit it.

I glanced at Death and it glanced back at me. There were millions- no universes of things I wanted to scream at it. But they never, and to this day, still never string together the fury and somberness I felt and still feel.

Death’s thin eyebrows knitted together and it said in an eerie, yet, collected tone, “I’ll be back soon.”.

When the last letter escaped his mouth, I threw my hands at him, trying to strangle him.

But he evanesced away.

And there I sat with Baba’s frigid corpse.

Confused, enraged, and sorrow, all at once.

“Dad, where’s Mama?”

I keep my back to Alex and wrestle with the tears in my throat.

“She’s gone.”

“When will she be back?”

“Maybe in a week.”

How can I do this to him? I know damn well those bottles will get her before he has the chance to tell her goodbye.

“Dad?”

“Yes Alex?”

“Are you okay?” His voice trembles.

“Yes, I’m fine. Do you have homework?”

“Yeah.”

“Go finish it, I’ll call you down later.”

“Okay.”

I don’t want to do this to him-

It’s the only way I can hold his reality before it crashes down.

I look around,

I find them with

overexaggerated grins

tugging their muscles.

It satisfies me

a bit.

At least I'll have

a story to tell.

True, I still dwell

on characters that've

parted from the story.

But these characters

are my favorites.

Some have been

there since the start,

their eloquent words making

their way into my heart.

Others joined a bit later,

and everything about them

made the plot greater.

Or so I thought.

Through endless pages and pages

chapters that captured my heart,

they were there.

Their perfect solutions to every problem,

their helpful and witty advice,

their willingness to listen to me spill my feelings

out onto their clothes,

their willingness to help me heal.

It was all too real...

I'm flipping the pages back

and something's gone wrong.

Their nonchalant and caring demeanor

gone.

The concern and worry on the faces

look hand-drawn.

They scowl and glower with

every step I take to them,

filling the air and silence with

cruel insults about me.

I know they don't want me

but I want them, so

I run to them

and they fade away.

I look around:

nothing.

All that's left is me,

on my knees,

crying on the ground.

Girls against me,

guys against me,

teachers against me,

& you against me.

Everyone against me.

I’ll warn you before you decide to make a move:

Wave your white flag in the air, put your head down,

& utter the truth.

Aw, you can’t do that because you have everyone

drowning in ruth

for you.

Aw, you can’t do it because you’re too arrogant

to admit you’re wrong.

You’re too busy singing the song

of hypocricy.

One that sends everyone screaming, imploring for more.

You can’t do it.

And you won’t.

In that case,

I’ll have to enlist in some help.

I’d like you to meet

Karma.

No, she wouldn't like to listen

to your prose about how you hate me.

No, she wouldn't like to hear your backstory

about your past.

This will be your last

warning: admit that you are not the

asundered victim & you never were.

You're just a liar seeking attention

and affection.

From everyone.

No? You still rebuff?

That's okay.

Because Karama here

will teach you a lesson

you'll never forget.

It'll be there like an involuntary muscle:

it doesn't require a command from

the central body.

It just

works.