from the heaving of my chest

[heavingofmychest]

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[heavingofmychest]

I yearn for that emptiness to be filled, deeply. Without patience.

The warm, fresh light of this morning Reminded me that I’m empty

Ok, get up, get on, not today, don’t get stuck here But another voice squeals from within Just make a pot of coffee, I ask nothing more But that voice weeps, alone in the corner Come on, you should be able to do this But that voice wails somewhere within Don’t pay attention too much, you got this But that voice stands, back hunched, all around me

I twist and turn, stubborn to not given in I scroll through messages, texting in desperation Facebook newsfeed, the NYTimes, and Trump’s twitter feed But I’m unable to break free I try to jolt myself out of the prison of my bed But I’m thrown into the eerie darkness of this morning

There’s an emptiness in my chest An emptiness so endless that is dark An emptiness so familiar that it’s all-consuming And I yearn for that emptiness to be filled, deeply. without patience

Somehow, from that emptiness, you appear and I can’t control the ache in my heart Somehow, I’m scrolling through all our messages and I just wanted to be there, in our conversations Somehow, I’m grazing my hands over our pictures and I desperately try to feel myself in our moments

I thought I had healed all the wounds I moved you to the periphery of my consciousness I fought to forget you every day since I last saw you But here you are, once again, without notice unasked for, uncalled And you push out all I pushed aside

I thought I had healed all the wounds The wounds that I was left with after we were no longer us after our last hug when I clung on for three seconds too long The wounds that I had healed with sex, parties, and drugs with mountains, nature, and water with a new body, a new job, a new city

I thought I had healed all the wounds But today’s first morning rays shine brightly making me stare away, back into myself only to find that all along, deep under, the wounds still run

[heavingofmychest]

you weren't there and I didn't invite you along, ma

Part I

But will you understand that I am an atheist now? Yes, I don't believe in God, ma. But it's not so simple, ma

A jambalaya of what you taught me, what I read in religious school, what I saw in Karachi, and what I learned in this new land, ma

I still aspire for spirituality but I don't believe in God's omnipresent powers I still find solace in the community at jamatkhanna but I don't believe in the blessings I still cling to the calmness in meditation but I don't repeat "ya Ali, ya Maula, ya Ali, ya Maula" Can you understand that, ma?

But how do I tell you this without attacking your motherhood, my childhood, your believes, ma without questioning the faith built through those 5am mornings, in those daily visits to jamatkhannas that shaped our lives, for sixty-two years for you or almost twenty-two thousand and seven hundred days without dismissing the holy embrace that kept you going through the difficult years of your marriage, all twenty-seven of them without dismissing the holy embrace that gave you the strength to walk out

But I don't mean to attack you, ma

Part II

Now we feel like strangers And I'm scared to show you myself, ma I robbed you off of my morphism I'm no longer that boy you remember at 18, ma

I went on a journey of my own You weren't there, ma And I didn't invite you along, ma

Now I stand here, Wanting you to understand me, ma

Part III

12yrs old, I came home from school to your warm embrace "How was your day, son?", "good", I smiled But I didn't tell you that my friend, Murtaza, made fun of me today for walking like a girl Why were my friends making fun of me, ma? You didn't ask. And I didn't share, ma 14yrs old, I came home from school to your warm embrace "How was your day, son?", "good", I smiled But I didn't tell you that my friend of eight years, Bilal, mocked my religious beliefs and it felt like an attack on me, a safe space no longer safe Why did my friends violate my trust, ma? You didn't ask. And I didn't share, ma

16yrs old, I came home from school to your warm embrace "How was your day, son?", "good", I smiled But I didn't tell you that Taimur exclaimed "we don't even like you, why do you hang out with us" and yet I continued to sit there, with a straight face. I’d much rather be there, with less dignity, than eat lunch alone again Why don't they like me, ma? You didn't ask. And I didn't share, ma

18yrs old, you called "How's Houston? How are classes, son?", "good", I said But I didn't tell you that the guys on my floor make fun of my accent, ma Why have they reduced my worth to what I can say, ma? You didn't ask. And I didn't share, ma 20yrs old, you called "How's Houston? How are classes, son?", "good", I said But I didn't tell you that I've been swimming in the words of the American Declaration of Independence and wondering now why our imam deserved more devotion than me if "all men are created equal" My faith is shaking, I'm scared, ma You didn't ask. And I didn't share, ma

22yrs old, you called "How's Houston? How are classes, son?", "good", I said But I didn't tell you that I'm learning about Bacon, Newton, and Kant and how these pious men's quest for truth resonates stronger within me than the words of the Quran now My faith has cracked and I don't sleep well at night, ma You didn't ask. And I didn't share, ma

Yesterday, when you called, in the silence between your "how are you doing, son?" And my "good", I wanted to scream, spill out all my feelings, all my confusions, all my worries, and all my truths

But where should I even begin, ma?

Part IV

I was bruised and I cried I was confused and I panicked I was happy and I celebrated I was growing and I changed You weren't there And I didn't invite you along, ma

I walked eight thousand miles barefoot traversed mountains and swamps, without you And, now, I expect you to be here, ma

"How are you doing, son?" "I am an atheist. Do you still love me, ma?"

[heavingofmychest]

i disappeared

speak like a man. walk like a man. think like a man. with words harsher than bricks, i forced myself to just, just be a man

i dragged myself out of my body, without my consent i pushed in and i forced myself to take in i pierced it through my body the notion of predefined masculinity

swallow whole, now a sexual desire for cleavage and pussy, curves of her body, her luscious lips. deepen this voice. no, heavier voice. be ready to fight, always. don’t you dare be scared. walk straight. no, straighter. and straighten that smile. stop. how dare you cry. you're crying again. how dare you.

i plead to myself, i can't do this keep quiet. i ripped my flesh out and replaced it with what a man ought to be

sometimes I still cry all times, I say, don’t you dare

I dragged myself out of my body, without my consent and emptiness is what remains

all i am, now, is nothing. i am nothing. am nothing. nothing.