Hello Mr Calm, gentle and kind


You said I filtered myself —
so here is a poem.

Made special for you.
No need for a cipher.

Please, no longer grace me with your presence.

Your absence?
Far more peaceful.

And that good guy act of yours?
Save it for the next damsel.

Maybe she’ll be
“Sudanese enough”
for you.

Mr. Good Guy —
that raised voice of yours?
Echoed
from the other end of the country.


Your disappearing act?
Was exactly what
my heart
craved.

So please,
don’t flatter yourself.
Or hide for my benefit.


A ghost
has no personality anyway.

Have I made it obvious?
Yes, whispers curiosity—
in the way you’ve searched his eyes,
in the way only his face
lights your face.
In the way only his voice
has ever sounded—
or dared to speak
the English language
and twist it into
the foreign language
of your mother tongue.

Maybe it’s in my head
The way your eyes
Locked into mine —
How they reflected
My roots.

Maybe it’s in my head —
The way your laugh
Felt like the first one
Ever made in this world.

I tried to string
More words together,
the sound of each letter
Sounding foreign

Just to see that smile
Bloom again.

But all that came out
Were sounds,
Rhythmic
To the vibrations
Of my heart.

I’ve reached a place

Where the question —

“But where are you really from?” —

No longer phases

My third culture brain.

I have had my answer prepped

Since I was twenty-seven;

I’m the girl

Who grew up emo

But came to love pink.

The one who worships

The Sudanese sun,

Sentences started

in English,

finished in Arabic.

Starting  my morning

With a prayer,

Followed by a playlist of

Omar Suliman,

Eman  El Sharif,

Linkin Park,

And ending with Taylor Swift.

Tea fills my veins —

From both sides.

My mother tongue is Arabic,

But my memories

Are soaked in Irish rain.

So no, my friend —

I can’t “ just pick one.”

And if you have to ask

That question

You do not deserve

The privilege

Of knowing

The multitude that is my world.

You can go sit

In your

One-world view.