Cloudy With A Chance of Islamophobia by F. I. Ullah

I wake up in the morning feeling like a bottomless lake 

Not knowing whether my prospective moments 

will fill me up 

or leave me barren 

with no steps left to take. 

So, to avoid the heartache, 

I leave myself in limbo as I lie in bed 

wide awake. 

I was never a glass half full or half empty kind of girl; 

the vessel was shattered long ago. 

I imagine myself floating 

in my hopes for the future; 

cutting my arms 

against the sharp edges of the unknown, 

praying that I don’t make a mistake. 

I wrap my headscarf, 

watching how my favourite shades of blue 

cradle my face. 

Thinking about how others want to 

strangle me 

with my only form of protection. 

Their obsession 

with my “oppression,” 

as if 1.9 billion Muslims saying otherwise 

didn’t leave an impression. 

I push myself out the door 

and step onto the lily pads; 

careful not to create any ripples, 

careful not to drizzle 

any attention to myself. 

Because with every word I’ll ever say 

holds hands with the souls that portray 

appearances that are similar to mine. 

Society is the jury 

and the media is the courtroom. 

One individual motivated by 

violent political ideologies 

is enough to put the rest of the population on trial. 

We mutter apologies 

for the same individual that continues to cause 

destruction in our midst. 

We have not found ways 

to translate our innocence 

into a language 

that humanity understands. 

Until then, we are, 

“guilty until proven 

extremist.” 

Racism is Canada’s native tongue, 

and I feel it lick 

the saltwater tears 

off my face; 

as I board the bus 

and feel the piercing stares 

cutting me open 

and leaving me raw 

finding nothing but my pounding heart 

soaked in a downpour of 

loneliness. 

The weather forecast 

shows a hundred percent chance 

of a hate crime occurring in my location. 

The air is polluted 

with microaggressions 

and I’ve run out of sanity 

in my inhaler. 

The sidewalk echoes 

of the orphaned child 

whose family was stolen too soon; 

the men whose beards were sliced, 

the Muslims shot and killed 

while praying at their mosque, 

the hijabi girls left to drown in rivers 

with no consequences for their offenders, 

the hijabi women verbally and physically assaulted, 

the hijabi women denied entry to work, 

the women sexualized for their modesty, yet 

demanded the removal of their clothing. 

The electrocution I feel 

when others scream at me as they drive by.

Their words: barbed wire. 

My lungs: bonfire. 

My body: paralyzed from head to toe. 

This bottomless lake: feeling more and more hollow. 

They call me a “terrorist” 

but I’m the one who is left to fear. 

The shark in the ocean, 

now endangered, 

hunted for its fins. 

My voice, 

my only way of survival, 

taken away; 

breathing out empty air bubbles, 

set ablaze 

as I drown 

in the only place I’ve ever known - 

the only place 

I’ve ever called 

home.