I am thinking of Palestine

I am thinking of Palestine

a death toll that has risen 

beyond human comprehension

another journalist martyred 

for speaking truth to power

parents clutching their children’s bodies 

praying they live to see another day.

I am thinking of Palestine

moral boundaries crossed 

in the pursuit of devastation

widespread starvation

water rations

blackouts in telecommunications

surgeries forcibly performed

without anesthetics 

two ambulances tasked with the impossible

to alleviate the suffering of millions 

at the hands of those militarily (ir)responsible. 

I am thinking of Palestine

senseless violence and statistics

the deaths add up 

but the justifications never do.

I am thinking of Palestine

the land they carry in their blood

ancestral homes nestled 

between the river and the sea

now beneath buildings and bodies 

that never got to see

the return of their homelands

their people and places freed.

I am thinking of the places

Palestinians seek refuge 

in Lebanon / in Jordan / in Egypt

intergenerational refugee camps

tatreez passed down through the decades

a living testament to resistance 

ancestral memories woven

through the fabric of displacement.

I am thinking of Palestinians 

how it must ache to be (up)rooted

migrating from stolen lands to stolen lands

suspended in liminal forests

seeing the maple of my home

while yearning for the olive of their own.

I am thinking of my Palestinian friends

who from a world away

tirelessly carry this work on

showing me what it means 

to be all in on collective liberation 

anti-colonialism is a hard-won fight

but their courage crosses borders

and forced removal will not stop them

from igniting a movement. 

I may not be Palestinian

but I do know what it is like

to have your homelands

renamed and reshaped 

under colonial occupation —

so I am thinking of Palestine

but I am not just thinking of Palestine

I am reading accounts from the ground

sharing the next event

showing up in the streets

boycotting businesses

and reaching out to politicians

knowing it is the least I can do.

Were the roles reversed

it is what I would want 

my Palestinian friends to do for me

our liberation, bound up with one another —

— none of us free

until all of us are free.

It’s been four years

CW: Sexual assault. If you require support after reading this, please reach out to one of the phone numbers listed here.

It’s been one day.

I head to work, hungover and reeling from the weekend.

I relay the events of that night:

the anxiety, 

the drinks,

the party, 

the club, 

the cab ride—

but there are parts I don’t remember.

Then a part where I wake up to him in my bed, not knowing how he got there. 

He and I don’t speak about it. The elephant in the room does the talking for us.

He leaves, and tears follow. There is truth sitting in front of me, too big to swallow. There is reassurance from friends that “he didn’t mean anything by it”. There is me, dusting myself off to drink champagne at brunch.

My boss doesn’t dust this off. She shuts the office door, declaring sexual assault.

There’s no way.

My best friend wouldn’t. 

Would he?

It’s been one week.

I’ve realized that my best friend would. 

That he did. 

And it terrifies me.

My week has been full

of hospital visits, 

of flights home, 

of crisis counseling, 

of being asked, 

“So what are you going to do?”

My family begs, “Stay here, get better, 

don’t go to school”

but I refuse to throw in the towel. 

He’s already taken my body from me—

I can’t let him take my campus too.

And besides, when the worst day of my life 

has already happened to me,

what else is left to lose?

It’s been one month.

And the answer is, a lot.

While my peers are writing essays

I am proving myself to lawyers.

While friends make our university town home

I sleep on their couches, too scared to be alone. 

While others win scholarships,

I drop down to part-time studies,

and lose mine because of it.

If the first month has taught me anything,

It’s that rape culture is alive and well, 

and my case is no exception.

My story spreads like wildfire

making me the punchline of every rape joke

and the target of every girl groups’ gossip.

It’s been six months.

I may have won the investigation, 

But I lost myself in the process. 

I don’t eat or sleep much these days.

I don’t feel like myself much these days.

I don’t want to carry on much these days.

Therapy will eventually dig me out

 of the shell I’ve made a home out of.

But today, it feels like he wins.

It’s been one year,

and I still feel miserable.

I am dating again. 

Not for myself, just to feel something, really—

but when my date pushes me against the elevator, 

scrapes my face gruffly with his stubble, 

pries my mouth open with his tongue 

and chokes me without asking,

the only thing I feel is anger. 

I fought a man once, and I am tired of fighting. 

So I wait for it to be over, and let him cross my boundaries.

It’s been two years.

I am living on a friend’s couch,

running from trauma in the name of adventure—

But no matter the miles between me and what happened to my body, 

I always remember.

What I don’t know is that ten days later,

I will dive in the ocean, bask in the sun,

and for the first time in years, 

I will feel truly, genuinely happy.

Mere weeks after that,

I will start a new chapter, in a new city,

where no one knows anything about me,

and it will be just the liberation I need.

It’s been three years.

I’m told the day doesn’t warrant recognition. 

That it’s time to 

forgive, 

let go, 

move on.

I give myself a sick day. 

I know my body well enough by now

to know what she actually needs. 

Sleep.

Fresh air.

Time to grieve.

This year, I have a partner. 

He tells me that no matter where I am, he’s with me in spirit.

He tells me he’ll marry me one day, if I allow him to earn it. 

For the first time in years, I feel like

my body means something to someone

and I let him a little more in.

It’s been four years now.

Each passing trip around the sun brings aching anticipation

of a day that’s never become easy.

I know by now that

the trauma may never fully leave me—

But today, 

I set boundaries, and have my consent respected.

I advocate for change, that impacts the next generation.

I love with my whole heart, and it feels better than I imagined.

It has taken four years,

but I have built a big, beautiful life

around my assault, 

and rendered it

so much smaller

 in the process.

Love was a rollercoaster

Love was an electric

swift-escalating crush

yearning to see them again

desperation to be touched.

Love was butterflies at the thought of them

swarms of fluttering anxiety;

viewing red flags through rose-coloured glasses

recklessly ignoring friends’ warnings.

Love was a deep-dive intensified

by late-night confessions

shared trauma

promises made in haste;

divulging how others had hurt before

naively trusting this would not be the same.

Love was high-infatuation passion

a sense of being finally understood;

leaning on sweet nothings as crutches

avoiding asking tough questions I should. 

Love was a rollercoaster

thrilling highs

and drops without warning;

each time I opened myself up 

I broke my wishbone falling.

When it came knocking again

I told love I did not want it;

heartbroken, angry, bruising

I closed myself off from new darlings.

Love had other plans for me

but it would need to sneak in unsuspected;

this time, steeped slow and sweet

founded on steady connection.

Love landed again

in the form of a friend

flooding me with warmth

I thought I’d forgotten;

no late-night secrets or lofty promises

just two companions, talking.

This love, steadfast and sure

made known their feelings for me;

they gave me a soft landing place to 

heal anxious, avoidant tendencies.

My love, choosing you

was still a cliff-dive of the heart kind

terrifying to take a chance on;

but when the words

“I’m in love with you” tumbled out,

your lips were there, ready to catch them.

Today, love builds our own unintelligible language;

I don’t get lost in someone else’s world 

instead, we build ours together.

Loving you

cracked me open emotionally;

made me tender in a way

I never knew I could be.

Love was a rollercoaster

and I used to think

that was all it could be;

but these days,

I have passion and peace

and I would choose that over anything.

The summer I stopped being afraid

The summer I stopped being afraid

I ordered a double scoop of indulgence,

lapped at focaccia doused in oil and balsamic

reminded myself that double zero was a sentence

for which I was no longer interested in starving. 

I did not juice cleanse for revenge 

I moved my body only when it wanted

When beach day came

I said “on my way” 

put my belly in a two-piece

and flaunted it.

The summer I stopped being afraid

I asked for a pay raise

told the chauvinist he could not speak that way

did not work a minute past five

took all my vacation time 

without feeling guilty.

I poured into my passions

let myself be bad at art

even worse at dancing

I skinny-dipped with strangers

stole the stage at karaoke.

When rumours swirled about me

I did not apologize for my existing

when I adored my own company

it ceased to matter if someone, 

somewhere out there hated me.

The summer I stopped being afraid

I grew out my pussy hair

treated myself as divine treasure

relinquished sex as a performing act

fell in love with my own pleasure.

I grew disinterested in unavailability;

half-hearted lovers ceased to appeal

Now that I could give myself everything.

Summer after summer

I was paralyzed by dizzying fears;

“What if I get fired?”

“What if I gain weight?”

“What if they judge me?”

“What if they leave?”

But that one wild, electric summer

I embraced a world

of possibilities within maybe —

“Maybe I deserve better.”

“Maybe I do love my body.”

“Maybe their opinions don’t matter.”

“Maybe I’ll always have me.”

That summer

I did not stop feeling afraid

but I stopped choosing afraid

and in doing so, 

I reclaimed life on my terms.

That was the summer that changed everything.

An ode to Native women

According to 

my family, my culture, my teachings

women are the water carriers

the odemin pickers 

the sacred, fasting for ceremony

Native women are the beaders

the teachers

the singers

the leaders

showing our communities how to

walk through life purposefully.

With heartbeat drums

handmade earrings

and braided hair

Anishinaabe kwe carry life generationally;

led by grandmother moon

and mother earth

to their children they pass down the teachings.

In tea time

and smudge breaks,

my aunties’ stories bring healing;

their laughter, a force to be reckoned with

proof that we’re still here, enduring.

I come from

a long line of strong women

who survived, against all odds

nookoomis, nimomma, me;

to mother earth

and to Native women

It is you to whom I owe everything.

                             Upholding my responsibilities means

being my mother’s keeper

as she is the keeper of me

but I cannot uphold my duties to her

If I am denied my becoming.

It is a cruel reality

that too often, we become

sisters in spirit

another red dress

a body murdered or missing;

women who never grow old

targeted for our existence.

Every Native woman 

should have the chance to become

a beader, a singer, a healer, a leader

a daughter, a mother, an elder, an auntie;

but each kwe that is taken early 

is a sacred gift denied her sanctity.

I have the privilege

Of not being murdered 

Of not yet having gone missing

so until every kwe is brought home

and returned to loving arms

I will not stop speaking.

Search the landfill

and do not let their names

pass in vain:

Morgan Harris

Marcedes Myran

Rebecca Contois

Mashkode Bizhiki'ikwe.

So what?

People have called her one her whole life

from before her sexual debut

through her dating journey

right into her committed relationship.

because that’s their defining insult right, slut.

As though what comes between her legs

could possibly ruin her

You see each new partner

as proof of promiscuity—

I see each as proof of      

attention to consent, 

flawless communication,

and perfect balance

between pleasures

given and received.

You teach her

to find disgust

in her own body

I find myself in awe of

the woman who

against all odds

taught herself

to take pride in

wearing it proudly.

When years of purity culture

taught her to wait until marriage

she taught herself to have sex

on her timeline,

whenever, however she likes.

When decades of slut shaming

taught her to feel

guilty about pleasure

as if it isn’t the most natural thing

in the world.

she refused

to be anything but

freaky / greedy / nasty

for her desires.

When you saw a slut

I see a woman undefined

by your defining insult

So what, if she’s a slut?

What if she is a slut,

and proud of it?

Then what?

The handbook

CW: Sexual Assault. If you require support after reading this, please reach out to one of the phone numbers listed here.

When asked at summer camp,

“Ladies, how many of you have been told 

not to get r*ped?”

every girl in the room shot her hand up.

This was a pop quiz

we came prepared for.

We spill out safety suggestions 

regurgitate rules like

check the backseat before you get in a car

always tell a friend where you plan to go

never wear headphones when walking alone.

We memorized the 

“how to not get r*ped” handbook 

thinking sexual assault

was the fault 

of a few monsters

(strangers, of course)

lurking in shadows and alleyways

teeth gnashing, waiting to attack you.

We were told that being well educated 

would protect us from what they perpetrated

but the handbook failed to mention 

that most sexual assaults

happen inside of our homes,

commonly caused

by men we already know.

Discussions of r*pe

are often hush-hush

uncomfortable to confront

framed in abstract statistics

printed in freshman orientation handouts

addendums suggesting

“Call this office once you’ve lived it.”

I’ve read that 

one third of women 

will experience sexual violence 

in her lifetime

that it is three times more likely 

to happen to Indigenous women

that seventy six percent of bisexual women

have survived it

that having been a victim once

makes you more likely to be a victim again.

As a 

queer / Indigenous / woman

crunching those numbers

makes me feel more

 walking target than warrior

I’ve soon learned that survival

means keeping most of myself in the closet.

The handbook will not tell you 

how to be a victim

half answers the question “what do I do?”

if (when) sexual assault happens to you.

It will tell you “no means no” 

knowing you’ve never learned how to say it. 

It will tell you to use your fight response 

knowing how common it is to freeze in danger.

It will tell you to call nine one one right away

conveniently forgetting 

that police do not keep us all safe.

The handbook will not tell you 

how to preserve the evidence

I learned through experience that

you should get your r*pe kit done day of

file your report within six months

keep the clothing in which it happened

and avoid washing your shame off in the shower.

Six months may seem 

like enough time to make up your mind 

but it took me nine

to hear his name and my name

and r*pe in the same sentence 

without crying.

The “how to not get r*ped” handbook 

will try to convince you 

that being assaulted

is synonymous with being broken.

Too often, the story narrated for us

is a biography

bound in a two chapter cage

before assault and after assault

reduced to damaged goods girls

instead of channeling our outrage.

As someone who memorized the 

handbook’s every last rule

as someone who still got r*ped

I’m telling you now that

this has always been a game rigged

for women’s bodies to lose.

Rape culture, not the existence of women

is the issue that needs to be dealt with

even when 

especially when

it means whatever bullshit 

any victim-blaming handbook

had to say

gets burnt down

in the process.

Baby, solidarity

The cop car slows down

and we both freeze

My baby pulls over

parks the car

puts his hands up

clutches the keys.

The officer says “Good evening,

How's your night going?”

oblivious 

to our shaking

My baby says politely 

“Very well sir”

while I wince

at the Native man

who looks like my uncle

in the back seat.

I’m not religious

but I pray to God

for the officer to let us go free

“Did you know your tail light’s burnt out?”

he asks,

“No sir, I didn’t” I reply,

“Do I owe you any fees?”

“No” the officer replies,

“Just get it checked out tomorrow”

We both breathe sighs of relief when he leaves.

My baby and I don’t use self-check-out

when we buy groceries

Because we’ve been chased down the street

told to give back what we haven’t paid for

experienced how degrading 

It is to dig a receipt

out of a trash can unclean.

No one had seen

us check out

meaning

they saw a Black man with a Native woman

And couldn’t help but assume

we must have been stealing.

I’m always proud to be with my baby

even when strangers 

threaten our safety

to the man

who referred to my man 

as a “******”

I hope you soon shift

your racist ideology

Because if everyone loved like my baby

then oppression

would cease to exist

and everyone could be set free.

As a mixed-race couple

I know

We can never count on

an unjust world

to make our struggles easy

But what we can count on 

is each other

and in our shared struggles

there is solidarity.

The story gets better

CW: Binge drinking.

You tell me you heard I wrote a poem about you

Yes, I did write about my love

and your lies

and the pain they put me through

You’ve never been one for words

that did not put you on a pedestal

and my words become swords

the moment I mark them in pencil.

I admit, calling you for closure was a foolish thing to do

but there are things I need to say,

and I should not have to swallow them

the way I swallow shots poured by the coworker that kisses you

the way I swallow the tears caught in my throat in the bathroom

the way I go to that bar anyway, just to be close to you

only for you to pour me a water.

I do not water down my feelings for anyone

had you read the poem,

you would have known just how hard I fell for you

If a picture says a thousand words

then I loved you one thousand pictures worth

and now you’re asking me to delete them.

You say I always have to come out of scenarios with a story

that I’m a “cool girl”, I really am,

but that I need to stop making adventures out of normalcy

It’s true that a highlight reel can never show my genuity

that’s why I write “WE WERE REAL” every time I turn you into poetry.

If you want real,

I will pour you the cold, hard,

no mixed in, watered-down truth

Sometimes I forget that

constructive dialogue takes the listening of two

and sometimes I drink to forget the love I once knew

I’m sure you would have done anything to numb the pain

had you been in my shoes

All I ever wanted was an apology that didn’t sound like an excuse

but accountability has never been your strong suit.

I know you heard the poem about you

And if you did not like what you heard

then I promise I won’t write about you anymore

you’re a chapter of the past now

I refuse to make this chapter less than grandiose and exciting

Because this story gets better

the more I keep writing.

Note: This is an old poem; I’ve since established a much healthier relationship with alcohol, and am in my sober curious era.

When the man is what you want

When the man is what you want 

(but not what you need)

He will make you feel like the only girl in the room

tell you you are so much more than pretty, hot and cool

ask if you knew there were fourteen thousand adjectives

to describe someone cute

say that when it comes to numbers,

your looks are a ten

and your personality a nine thousand.

He will drive you home

sit in your driveway while the radio hums low

dream up adventures with you for hours.

It may be November,

but he will make something inside of you bloom flowers.

His first gift to you will be a houseplant

“We can co-parent” he says,

under your watch, it dies.

You will think he would’ve been better at keeping it alive

considering the first time he holds your hand

is the first time you feel electrified.

Sparks will fly as you sit in his lap

gaze into his warm eyes in dim light

the conversation will flow like red wine

and when you tell him what your body has been through

you will both cry.

He will assure you that no matter what,

you deserve to be treated right.

You will stuff your infatuations into a mixtape

title it “there’s something so red wine about you”

you will add song titles like birthday candles,

wishes of wanting him behind each tune.

You will add A Moment Apart never wanting to spend one without him

My Favorite Part because that’s what he is to your day

Sound and Color because he makes you feel all of them

In an enthralling, encapsulating, all-encompassing way.

When the man is what you want

(but not what you need)

He will string you along with moments of dreamy reverie

Without following through on any of what he’s promising

He will come over at one and never stay until morning

But you will stay certain

that you want him to be your unravelling.

You will turn red flags into green lights

tune out your friends’ warnings

that this will not work out

eventually, it will scar you;

you will know they are right

but you will not be able to fight falling

when having him in your bed

is the first time you felt safe since being assaulted.

When you go home to visit family

he will call you twice that week to say he misses you

he will tell you he is sorry about his lack of availability lately

says “When you get back, we’ll go on an adventure, just you and me”

a string of words that have never sounded so sweet

a song from the mixtape will sum up your first night back perfectly lyrically

“Fell asleep on the sofa, but I’ve never felt closer to you”

When you wake up next to your brown-eyed lover

you will count his eyelashes, fifty-three on the right

you will feel a little crazy

but you think maybe, just maybe,

if you memorize the details of his face

there he can stay

unmarred by the world’s pain at your place.

That early summer night,

your plans will line up like fate.

Sitting in a blue lights lounge, dimly lit and draped

fabric hanging from the ceiling

giving the bar an intimate, ethereal feeling

for hours on hours, he will keep you laughing

and when he rests his head on his hands

eyelashes fluttering

you will be reminded

of just how hard you are falling.

That night when you have sex

it will be the closest you have been to someone

physically or emotionally

and you will fool yourself into thinking

that it is a matter of time until you start dating.

When you find out the truth

about the dates and adventures

he has with girls he puts before you

it will confirm every one of your worst anxieties:

That sleeping with you was his end goal

that winning your trust was his game strategy

that you were his sexual trophy. 

When the man is what you want

and not what you need

he will not offer you an apology

and he’ll avoid any chance to

acknowledge that he hurt you deeply.

When you write the goodbye letter

you will say this:

I would have done anything for you,

object of my affection

but I refuse to compete with

anyone else for your attention.

You will know that he cannot be the man you need,

no matter how much you want him,

if he will not show you respect too.

What you won’t say,

is that even when you cross the street to avoid him

That doesn’t mean you don’t want him to come chasing after you

You love him, you miss him, you still do.

Note: This is an old poem, revamped many years later as a letter to my younger self.

Manifestations of divinity

Growing up taught me all about what sex should not be

So I want to share a message with anyone who grew up in trauma and hurting:

First, I need to remind you that you are worthy and deserving

of love, not the pain and abuse that this world has put you through

Your story is safe with me and I believe you

For the rest of my life, I will fight until we see the end of this injustice through

Second, there is nothing wrong with your body

You do not need to meet anyone’s illusionary standard of beauty

If someone deems you “too distracting”

That’s a them problem; they need to work on their attention span capacity

You have no need for others’ approval and validity

Because you and you alone define your sexuality

Third, you are entitled to your boundaries

Even if you don’t know what they are, or you don’t want to do anything

You have every single right to your own bodily autonomy, 

That right is not a gift, a privilege, or an anomaly

No, getting asked what you like should be an every-time thing

If anyone lucky enough to be in your temple

They should treat you like royalty

Because if God is a woman,

then you are the manifestation of her divinity.

I’ve never kissed a friend and had the friendship last

Me and my go to girl

get ready for nights out

binge three am drunken takeout

laugh through late nights in the library.

Pop champagne when we celebrate

share ice cream to soothe heartache

call each other with details of first dates

sleepover enough

we’re practically roommates.

Me and my other half

are joined at the hip

finish each other’s sentences

see eye to eye on everything.

I call her soulmate

knowing she is the future

godmother of my children

nursing home bingo partner

maid of honor at my wedding.

My match made in heaven

I love her to death

I’ll love her until death

do us part.

I promise her forever

foolishly forgetting 

how precipitously

I’ve stamped the word

on friendship.

My best-best-best friend

is so close to me

I can almost taste her

I probably would date her

If she asked

but like every other

soulmate

twin flame

and other half

has taught me 

you can never kiss a friend

and have the friendship last.

Gorgeous gorgeous girls

Gorgeous gorgeous girls

were raised on 

midriff-baring crop tops

low-rise jeans

America’s Next Top Model 

and Cosmopolitan magazine.

Gorgeous gorgeous idols

emphasized 

that one hundred and ten pounds

(or less)

was ideal.

Tyra asked 

“Do you wanna be on top?”

Kate said

“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”

So gorgeous gorgeous girls 

learned to sip on 

coffee

green juice

and hustle culture

as replacements for their meals.

Gorgeous gorgeous girls

were told they could thrive on self-deprivation

as long as they took it seriously.

so gorgeous gorgeous girls

pulled their hair back

put their heads down

and gave their all

to trying so hard 

to be a 

girlboss

and a 

cool girl

simultaneously.

We wonder why

gorgeous gorgeous girls

become 

gorgeous gorgeous women

with anorexia 

and anxiety–

forgetting that

gorgeous gorgeous girls

were told 

they could “have it all”

and heard 

that in the process

they had to lose themselves 

entirely. 

A love letter to my body

Dear body,

Today marks the end of an era.

I have wasted much of our short time together

depriving you of nourishment,

pushing you to meet illusionary standards of beauty,

hoping others would validate your worth;

I know now that there is no need to apologize

for the space you take up.

For years I refused to feed you.

I thought if I kept myself busy with extracurriculars,

I would forget the ache of an empty stomach.

Pushed to the brink of anxiety attacks and exhaustion,

because I didn’t want to listen to your pleas for rest.

I am reminded, now and forevermore,

that you have always known my limits better than I do.

Too many times, you have been made to feel

like little more than an object.

You are not someone’s second choice,

late night company,

or “not now, but maybe one day”.

Many times I have blamed us

for wandering hands,

but the selfishness of other people

has never been your fault.

Despite what I or anyone else has done to hurt you,

you still wake me each morning

with a million things to be grateful for.

You allow me to watch hundreds of sunsets,

dance with reckless abandon,

and embrace each and every person I love.

So from this moment on,

I choose to love you, exactly the way that you are.

Though it sometimes feels as though they do,

no one has the power to take this home out of our hands.

That is something I will fight for,

now and forevermore.

With love,

Your mind.