Today’s Thoughts: March 28, 2017

“He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.”
Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

I know its been a while since I’ve given my status or written anything on my site, but today I just thought about the updates I used to give today and thought why not.

My site has been a mix between a journal and an actual writer’s site for me. I write the thoughts here that I wouldn’t feel comfortable with sharing with the people in my life and I publish short stories here just for the fun of it. But today’s just a journal post, starting with a question I ask myself a lot nowadays.

Whenever we encounter toxic behavior from those we love and care about, the age old question is asked from those looking outside in.

Why do you stay?

It’s a hard question to answer and sometimes I don’t even know the answer myself. From romantic relationships, to platonic relationships, even family we encounter unhealthy behavior from from time to time. I know this behavior is unhealthy, but I tell myself that people do make mistakes. When it happens again and again though, that’s when I take the time to think about the actual situation.

I hate the thought of abandoning those that I love, no matter what they do to me. Whenever I even consider leaving, shame hits me with full force. How could you ever leave someone you claim to love? In the eyes of may this is a dastardly thing.

This thought process has kept me in quite a few difficult relationships and at the end of the day the cycle starts all over again. I don’t leave. I have to be positive in how I view people and their connections to me. In the end, those that I  should have left end up leaving me behind with much regret and much reflection.

I wonder if I leave this time around, would I come to regret leaving? Or would I celebrate the fact I escaped?

The human heart is a tricky thing.


Today’s Thoughts: Jan. 27, 2017

“If you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it’s not because they enjoy solitude. It’s because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them.” 
― Jodi PicoultMy Sister’s Keeper
Recently, in my Advanced Composition class I was asked a question that I think might hit home for a lot of people.

Have you ever felt alienated by a group because of language or some other reason?

Let me say that my answer is most definitely, yes

I remember when I had started to go to a new school, the school was located in Austin, TX. It was a dainty little charter school, while a small staff, a small number of students and an even smaller builder. Considering all the stereotypes I heard about Texas over the years, I was expecting the school to be more right wing conservative, with little diversity.

But to my surprise, and slight joy, I found that over 60% of the school population was actually Muslim. I was excited naturally. For the first time in my life, I finally had people I could relate to about that important part of my life, instead of having to bottle it up. Now I could freely identify and share my issues with my fellow Ummah (Muslim Community).

I enjoyed all of my classes, and the little amount of people they had, thinking for once I wouldn’t be alienated.

But of course, I was wrong.

During the second week of school, I sat in my web technologies class along with 6 other Muslims students, 3 of which whom were Hijabis.

We hadn’t talked much since they seemed to be a tight knit group, but that was okay. They weren’t hostile or anything. They just seemed to stick to themselves, which I was fine with.

The bell was about to ring, and I begun to collect all my materials, shoving them into my backpack. Once I was finished with said task, I walked over to stand with three other students whom had already gotten up.

They were much quieter than usual.

“So, your name’s Khadija right?” one of the girls said to me.

I nodded and smiled at her, feeling my spirits rise.

“And your Muslim?” I nodded again. Earlier in the day we had an icebreaker sheet, where we put down little facts about ourselves. Since there were only 36 people in our graduating class and 19 people in the seniors graduating class, most of the classes were shared. Everyone knew everyone.

“Interesting,” one of the other girls said,. Their was a small pause,  a moment of silence as everyone waited for the bell to ring.

“So if your Muslim, how come you can’t speak Arabic and don’t wear Hijab?”

I was slightly taken back by this.

“I… never learned.” I responded. “I mean I took Arabic classes when I was younger but I moved so we had to stop though.”

Everyone nodded and returned to their strange silence, until another girl started talking and the group went back to their chat.

I only stood there, disturbed by the short yet deep conversation, feeling unsettled like a drop of paint on a gorgeous masterpiece I so desperately felt like I fit into.

The unsettled question stayed in the air, the question that bit at me the most, the question that I knew wanted to be asked most but couldn’t be.

How are you black and Muslim?


A Girl Comes Home

“Stab the body and it heals, but injure the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime.” 
― Mineko Iwasaki


The man fell down to the floor in a haze, clutching the seeping, wet hole in his stomach. He stared up at me with confused, hurt eyes.


“Don’t speak. You should have see this coming.”

“I..” He sputtered, choking and coughing up more blood. I looked down at him emotionless, wiping the back of my pistol.

“Don’t play coy, James.” I licked my teeth.

“You always did want to play the victim, no matter what. No matter what you did or how bad you hurt anyone, you’d always be the poor little victim, the sweet angel who could do no wrong. The whole world is always mean to you, isn’t it?”

The man coughed more, shivering as he leaned against the dark garbage container, the draft of the alley way seeping into his ailing bones.

“Well, guess what? You don’t do whatever you want and expect nothing out of it. You don’t get to screw me over EVER again.”


“I would…neve-”

“Never what? Hurt you Raqia? Damn liar. Always putting the crime ring before anything else. No, always putting YOURSELF before anything else.”

I shook my head, somberly observing the glossy black finish of the pistol in my hand.


“Papa always told me a girl shouldn’t use a thing like this. That I was to fragile to use such a dangerous thing.” I hummed softly to myself.


“Raqia,” He sputtered again. “PLEASE, dollface, listen”

“I’ll never listen to you again. I’ll never have to listen to you or see your face ever again. I’m the last damn person you’ll ever mess with on this Earth. I won’t let you hurt anyone else, and I sure as hell won’t let you hurt the ring.”


I paused, looking upon the poor thing’s form. Something akin to pity swirled in my chest and for I second my mind took me to a place of joy and romance, a place of fantasy.

But that’s exactly what is was.


It was late again, and the sky had cleared, revealing a dazzling night sky. Papa would be worried. It was time for me to finish business.


“Good bye, you rat.” I said, facing the man one last time.


It was time for me to go home.

Today’s Thoughts: Jan. 26, 2017

“We wanted the freedom to love. We wanted the freedom to choose. Now we have to fight for it.”
Lauren Oliver, Requiem

It’s weird.

Our bubble burst.

The bubble everyone in love has. The bubble of affection, puppy love, adoring eyes, tender moments. The bubble that we have after every fight. The bubble that we have, when we lie in bed, with nothing to do or say but take each other in.

It’s gone now.

It’s okay. I’m okay. We’re okay. We don’t need a bubble to love each other anyways.




“I disliked numbers, and they didn’t think much of me either.” 
― R.J. AndersonUltraviolet
1 2.

5 6.

8 10.

12 31.

41 56.

91 112.

145 212

323 456.


Numbers, numbers everywhere. Like she’s perpetually stuck in a math class she never signed up for.

When she first opens her eyes, she see a pair up on her lofty wooden ceiling. 1 2.

She sighs and rolls out of her bed. Maybe today she’ll only see one pair. There are days like that. Days where she can breath. Weeks even, where she feels normal again.

Let’s not forget, a little voice in the back of her head says, normal’s gone. Normal died in the accident.

She rolls her eyes, as splashes her face. The drops fall back down again, and she see the faint shape of a 5 and a 6.


It’s okay, she tells herself. The doctors said that I’m recovering from the fall pretty well. My brain will be back to normal in no time. Therapy’s helping.


Like a mantra, every day to work at the publisher’s.

When she clocks in, she sees them again. 8 10.

On her desk is another bundle of flowers. Probably from Him, like usual. She traces them lightly, before taking a seat. Squinting, she sees them beneath the letters. On the tag reads 12 31. She shoves them aside for now.

She’ll deal with them later.

As she types the new article of the day, she wonders what He’s thinking right now.

He got you into this  mess. The voice whispers. Don’t waste your time.

She nods to herself.

I don’t need him. He left when I needed him. I don’t need him now.

She checks the bottom of her article. 41 56.

The day goes by slowly. It still goes by, though. She clocks out. 91 112.


Her home is her haven. The numbers go away after dark when she gets home. She sits on her couch, with dinner and the tv remote in hand, ready to relax and wash the day off, when her phone lights up.


Him. Dont.

He asks her how she is. She sends him a simple fine. She’s not ever in the mood to talk to him these days.

If he hadn’t left, you wouldn’t have fallen. If he’d listened to you, you would have never hit your head. You wouldn’t have the numbers.

Abruptly, she tells him she has to go. He understands. She needs time.

As she hangs up the phone, she sees two numbers like a flash, that leaves as soon as it comes. 145 212.


She lies in bed. She wonders if he blames himself. She wonders if he’ll move on eventually. She wonders if they’ll ever talk again.

It’ll be another sleepless night. It’s okay.

She’s had plenty of those.

The ceiling fan moves silently, the only motion welcomed motion. She stares at the blue hue of the alarm clock.


323 456.



“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”
William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
I wish I could write you the way all the greats do.
I wish I could write you like scenery, an ethereal piece of nature, a song, anything beautiful in this world.
I wish  could describe how I felt for you the way those hopelessly, drunkenly, feverishly in love write about their own hearts, but I could never find those words deep enough inside me.
I know what I feel.
I do.
But I could never find the right words for you, no matter what you do, no matter how I feel, I can never describe you.
Does that devalue my love for you?
It’s something I want so badly, to feel this aching, burning, poetic, unworldly love for you. To feel affection for you every minute of the day, to have you pressed upon my mind like an iron, and yet…
It’s as if I’ve just met you.

Today’s Thoughts: Jan. 23, 2017

“A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.”-Robert Frost

I find it so hard to write poetry.

I can find all the terms, all the metaphors and similes, all the settings to describe and the perfect words to use, but I can never string them together to make sense.

To make them mean something.

Prose has always been my mode of operation. I’ve done good with it since I was little.

But poetry? Never had a chance. I’ve attempted millions of times, looking to all the great sources, love, nature, sadness, joy, heartbreak, for some sort of inspiration but it never comes right to me.

Perhaps I haven’t felt enough. Maybe I haven’t felt right.