do i need to
slice off the tip of my tongue
and watch my sins bleed off
my pale, shivering lips
for you to understand me?
do i need to
roast my pale, winter skin, leave it
burning under the sun,
until i can no longer feel
for you to finally stop laughing?
do i need to
crawl out of my hoodies and sweaters,
lose a reminder of my
fading past
for you to treat me like i'm normal?
do i need to
mirror all you do and simply fall
into a typical stereotype of what
i've been destined to be
for you to just fucking smile at me?
i am not your typical
Abu nor Ali nor Danial Irfan,
but why, of all beautiful names
language has bestowed upon us,
do you call me an "invader"?
as if it were i who had indeed
settled to dominate your country
- no, our country -
and exploit us of our riches.
as if it were i who had indeed
massacred the men fighting
for the sakes of our liberation
for our excited screams of freedom.
as if it were i who had indeed
chosen to be born in the outside world.
as if it were i who had indeed
let geography define me as an alien:
an invader.
once upon a time, i thought i'd understood
the concept of home sweet home,
of a country united by love
and undying, relentless passion.
yet with this bleeding tongue,
this morphed, warped appearance,
and this broken, broken heart
do i understand that there is no home.
for if i am not of my nation,
nor am i of my very own name,
what am i simply but
what society has dubbed me?
i am
an invader.