I apologize.

I apologize, dear. I apologize for the disturbance my scars caused whenever you glanced at them. I apologize for wearing them proudly and not pulling my sleeves down each time someone pointed at them and asked if there was something wrong with me. I apologize, dear. For my hair always smelled like vanilla and sunshine and all the beautiful things in the world you despise. I know it wasn't brown enough or straight enough and I know it was messy and tangled up all the time but I loved that and you didn't. I apologize, dear; for my knees were always too bony and my body was too cold to be touched. I should have gained more weight to look more like a woman and less like a tragedy to satisfy all men but not my own self. Sorry. I apologize for not looking like art all the time. I apologize for not letting my fingers touch your bare skin instead of the pen I touch all the time to write you something you will throw away the very next day. I apologize for not being too needy and too clingy. My independence must have made you feel unloved or something but that was never my intention and you knew that too damn well. I apologize for loving the sound of the rain more than the sound of your own voice because I know how much you hated winter and how I found that intensively strange. Speaking of strange, I owe you one big apology for having a beauty mark on my bottom lip and how the whole world found that strange but then again, I loved that and you didn't. Maybe that's why you didn't kiss me for too long. Maybe what drove you crazy most was how I couldn't sleep without listening to Led Zeppelin. Maybe not fantasizing about the lead singer or speaking of how hot he used to be all the time is what you found strange because I wasn't like the rest of the girls but then again, I loved that and you didn't. I know good music was not your thing and I apologize for that. I should have known better than to let a stranger hold me with an intention to let me go. I apologize for mistaking coffee for drugs you get heavily addicted to. I apologize, dear; for my eyes weren't bright enough and for not looking good all the time. I guess nobody taught you that depression sucks the light inside of you and leaves you with nothing. I deeply and strongly apologize for learning to let people go. I learned that at a very young age. Maybe the way my face changed according to the season was something you disliked and I apologize for not being what you like. I know you had some pathetic standards for what a real woman should look like and be like and I never bothered to keep up with them because you knew standards were never my thing but I loved that I didn't care and you didn't. I apologize for not being fully understood and perfectly known so well by anybody and I apologize for being one big mystery you long to discover at first but you get tired after the first failure but unfortunately, I loved that and you didn't. I know I was too strong and a little shattered for someone so lost like you, I apologize for that. I apologize for my confidence and how it sometimes turned its back on me and made me hide under so many layers of skin. I apologize, dear. I was never a popular girl at my school and I knew that ever since the very first day of kindergarten. Maybe the lack of popularity turned you off because you wanted your so-called lover to be known by the whole goddamned world but I never wanted that and you did. Oh dear, I apologize for not being what I should be. I apologize for having a fire inside of me that nothing, not even the rain that I admire, can put out but I love myself no matter how fucked up I seem to be. I love myself, and you don't. I apologize for not even wanting to apologize. I do not apologize for who I am.

يا من يهمس فى اذنى كل ليلة صامتة, اطلب منك الرحيل
يا من تراقبنى و جسدى تغادره الحياة يوم بعد يوم, توقف
يا من جلس فى صمت تام و انا بداخلى ثورات و حروب, هل انت بعدو؟
كيف اثق بك و انت مجرد لا شئ اكثر ولا شئ اقل من روح معتمة تتمنى موتى و انا على قيد الحياة
و ما الحياة الا وهم 
و ما الوهم الا لهؤلاء الذين يعرفون ان الحياة ليست وهم
و ما انا بشئ
و ما صنعت للحياة
و ما ولدت لأحيا
و ما عشت لأموت
و ليس من حقى ان اتمنى الموت
و انا مجرد, جسد بنصف روح, لا اكثر ولا اقل

An Unusual Morning.

I opened one of my brown eyes to see that morning had finally arrived. I opened both of my brown eyes to fully check it's a new day but I had the strangest of feelings. I woke up feeling that I shouldn't. I woke up smelling death all over the room. I told my mind to stop constantly reminding me that being here isn't the problem and that the problem might be me. I ordered my mind to stop playing that song I've been listening to for hours, unaware that it's even playing. I told my mind to stop causing profound aches to my chest, to stop making my body hurt. I ordered and ordered but it seemed to block its ears and didn't quite respond. I told my heart to heal. I reassured it that no pain can last, that just because it's as tiny as my clenched fist, doesn't mean it's not stronger than everything being thrown at me. I kept talking and talking but it swore to never talk back. I told my body to get its shit together and ignore the utter exhaustion and that it's okay to move, that blood is still running through my veins and that there's no accurate reason for it to be so glued to the bed. It responded after 3 hours. It did leave the bed after a several arguments between the both of us. When my feet decided to walk -and trust me, I have no idea how they managed to do so- I, for some reason, avoided looking at all the mirrors in the house and I kept wondering why we had so many mirrors hanging almost everywhere around the house. What would possibly be so interesting to look at every five seconds? It's not like your face would surprisingly decide to look hotter by the time you walk out of your room and reach the corridor. I turned the T.V on and I couldn't feel more disgusted. How could someone be made of flesh, bones, skin and spuriousness? I couldn't help but feel sorry for them but then I felt sorry for myself for judging people poorly without getting to know them with their skin peeled off. I had decided to not eat and to not do anything. To do nothing. To feel nothing. To be nothing. Just like I always seem to do. Maybe if I become nothing, nothing will hurt. Maybe the nothingness I am will shut away the whole world and I would finally stop vomiting every word I uttered at the wrong time. Maybe I would vomit all my regrets and let my head be as empty as my stomach. But it doesn't work that way. How strange is it to let a million thoughts run inside your head at just one single morning and not even be aware of the time passing you by? How silly is it to exist and not live, how fragile of me to pathetically not let myself be?

May angels lead you in.

"Dear lord,

Shut my eyes

Clear my head

Stop my heart

I'm better off dead" he says as he swallows a pill.

"Dear lord,
I surely do not deserve
Every breath I waste
Every word I utter
Death is all I taste
Nobody will even bother" Another pill is swallowed with crying eyes softly closing. How can suicide sound so peaceful when there's a war raging inside?
"Lord,
The seven seas will not shake
Humans' hearts will not break
Everyone will grieve
And then wake
Without the thought of me crossing their minds
Oh, that, I truly believe."
"Oh lord,
I prayed and prayed
You listened
I never healed
I never healed
I never healed
Mighty lord,
Forgive my selfishness," now it's four pills at a time.
"But," His body feels a little cold.
"I am so strong
And suicide is an act of strength
Some days I would measure my body length
And see how small I am walking among
Big, big, people who somehow belong
Unlike...me." another four pills shoved down his throat.
"Lord,
On the nights I had pills as a company
And knives knocking softly upon my skin
You were watching when I shouted at you to take me
You were watching when all the hate spread within"
"Take my life away
In the light of day" and Lord did listen this time.

I am me. I am the universe, I am made of galaxies and dazzling stars. I'm made of night skies and moody clouds. I am the sun, the moon and every light in between. I am a 100 year old tree and a flowing river in the middle of nowhere. I am the conceited wind that never bothers to blow in the middle of August. I am the dark before dawn. I am Pluto, I am left behind. I am Earth, I am life. I am the air you breathe and the breath of life you long for. I am death, I'm inevitable. I am haziness. I am winter; loved for my beauty and hated for the mess I cause when I decide to be myself. I am a furious act of kindness. I am whole. I am empty. I am freedom. I am injustice. I am sadness. I am the sea. I am a lost soul and a hidden one. I am a mistake occuring from a breakdown. I am a writer's block and a perfect inspiration. I am a soul. I am a body.  I am the unexplainable universe. I wish I could be more but I am me. I am me.

It feels like I'm drowning in a sea of fatigue I, and only I, had created. You will most likely feel the utter cold if you touch the water with your fingertips. Drowning, it's not as peaceful as they make it look like in movies. It's not beautiful and you don't placidly drown in slow motion because the water violently steals your every breath while you fight for one, your whole body tingles, and then you start to suffocate. The only beautiful thing about drowning is that once you drown, your body is somehow set free, I haven't reached that part...yet. After that, you're no longer a part of the physical world, you're no longer going to inhale and exhale. The worst part is, it all happened because of you, you're the one who let yourself drown in the first place but you can't be blamed, the world can sometimes get too monstrous and too bitter.

Naked Soul

An exposed self is one of the worst 8 things that exist in life. The other 7 are still unknown. The human heart is fragile. Minds can't bear too much thoughts and me and you are just two handwritten stories that were never lucky enough to be finished, we never were lucky enough to have an ending and that's strange 'cause I never got to read our beginning, I never got to read our first word that made such great stories out of us.

Unknown

You never really know someone so well as you assume you do because you haven't been stuck inside their brain. You haven't walked around inside their skin. You don't know what the voices inside their heads sound like. You haven't seen the world within their eyes or heard the ticking clock at 4 AM in the midst of silence with their ears. You never felt the touch of everything they lay their hands on. A person is not how they look or how they speak or how they go crazy over insignificant things. Even at their worst they're never really at their worst because you simply don't know what their worst is. You call them lifeless, but you don't know how vivid they are. You call them sad, but you've never seen their flashback of eternal memories of real smiles and laughter. You call them crazy, but you have no idea how sane they are. You think they're normal and inconsequential but you haven't seen how far their mind travels late at night. You've never died as many times as they did in order to live. Their fears, their dreams, their falling tears, their obsessions, their untold secrets, their reminiscence, the crinkling of their voices, the way they inhale and exhale, the way they talk, the way they walk, the way they love, the way they hate, their heartbeats and their existence. It all belongs to them. Don't you dare tell me that you know every single detail about all of these. You might breathe the same air as theirs, your feet might touch the same ground they've walked all over, you might listen to the same sounds they've listened to, you might as well be like them, but you'll never be them.

Incomplete.

I have written a million writings and a hundred thousand poems, a hundred thousand papers got crumpled and thrown away and a hundred thousand papers are hidden somewhere waiting for someone to collect all the missing words and place each one in the suitable place. Maybe the papers are empty because I’m empty, and maybe I’m too full to spit my thoughts out on paper. Maybe the words are too stubborn and they refuse to get out; maybe they fell in love with being imprisoned inside my head. Maybe they don’t want to be released; maybe they don’t know what freedom is anymore. The possibilities are endless.

Everything I write is incomplete and unfinished, and an incomplete writing that could be something turns into nothing due to the nonexistence of the right words. Just like having the great opportunity to make things right and retrieve what went missing but instead you fuck everything up by enunciating the wrong words, and poof, your great opportunity is gone.

Words are ambidextrous; they can do miracles. They can heal and they can break, it’s prodigious how one word can change everything forever, and the power of a bunch of words combined together is matchless. Sometimes you long for those three words that could make everything better and sometimes you hear this one word that means you and your soul mate have to part, never to reunite again. That tide of emotions and feelings you get when you hear those words you have always wanted to hear from that special somebody and you carry those words inside your heart for a lifetime. What about those words that shatter you and turn you into absolute nothingness? Those words that fuck everything up, those words that make it hard for you to breathe.

And once again I’m wordless and uninspired. And once again I let one of my writings remain incomplete forever.