Hope and caution. 

“If only you knew how terrified I am.” – Unknown

I’m the pieces of a puzzle no one wants to solve. Not even me. Why would I when it will only make an abstract image that makes no sense? Why would I when I’ve been told time and time again by my own heart that I am not worth it, that I am not good enough?

Fears reside in the darkest corners of our minds. They’re the monsters I fight. The demons I try to contain. They’re my invasions. I know I’m not perfect, and I know no one is, but I’m just a tad bit more imperfect than you, and that just haunts me.

I don’t know what makes me imperfect, but something does and I’m pretty sure people get annoyed when I talk too much about it. Every time I say something, I’m afraid that soemthing will go wrong. Every word of mine is wrapped in hope and caution.

I’m afraid. I’ve always been. And so when I’m asked about my story, I just smile like it’s no big deal and ask them to repeat theirs for the thousandth time, and I find joy in the subtle changes in the story that they make to make it more memorable and perfect. Every time they speak about scars, I close my eyes and feel the skin under my sleeves tingling with sensations of blood and pain. I smile and talk about how beautiful they look in their crop tops and funky hats. Every time I burst with excitement and say something stupid, I stay quiet and regret it for the rest of the day. Everytime I have a story to tell, or a new hobby to show, or just want someone, I just listen to music and find my solace in the pretty words and crazy beats.

Every time I am at a party, I dance a little softly and eat not at all, because I want to be invited the next time too. Every time they crack a joke that I don’t understand, I laugh anyway because I’m sure I’ll understand the next one. Every time someone shares their food, I ask twice and then confirm one last time before having the smallest piece I can find, and saying Thank you. I want to have more, but I wait for them to offer.

I dont have a best friend. Unless you consider 234 pages of a white notebook that I carry with me everywhere a friend. I don’t write diaries because I don’t understand the idea behind it. But I do write poetry which reflects my life as a beautiful world and me as a happy being. But sometimes, it’s sad and just not good enough. Quite like me.

They call it Atelophobia.


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Tsunami

I’m as messed up as this poem. This just might not make sense.

Home.
It’s a strange place
You never know where you’ll feel it.
Two arms and music inside a chest
Or four walls and family dinners
Or spin the bottle and hopeless friends
Or maybe just a city.
My mind is a crazy mess
My heart does not rhyme anymore
Everyone has a story
I’m living a story that
I just can’t put into words.
Nostalgia is a dirty liar.
But it’s my happy place.
You see,
When I write about love,
Words flow nonstop.
When I write about pain,
I don’t try to rhyme, it just fucking happens.
But when I write about home,
My poetry is a lost cause.
There’s a tsunami in my head.
A tsunami of words that don’t match,
And there’s no way to put them together.
I’ve been trying and trying to write
About home
About my time there
About my time here
About what I’ve felt in between
But words of no purpose pop into my head
And although they can be made
Into something beautiful
Like everything can
I’m just not the one to do it.
But I so badly want to.
I want to frame sentences,
And beautiful verses,
Phrases that make sense,
Something.
But here I am,
Going on and on
Not having a clue about what I’m writing.
I’m so sorry.
I just miss home.


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Earth.

How terrible
must a world be
for innocents to die
and rogues to live?
How terrible
must a world be
for just two words
to be able to sum it up?
“Me too.”

How terrible
must a world be
for hearts to be broken
and promises alike?
How terrible
must a world be
for girls to be raped
and guys to be demoralized?
How terrible
must a world be
for Aleppo to fall
and have disasters everywhere?

It must be
as terrible as
the world you and I
live in.


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A ghost with a beating heart

I’ve been asked
‘Are you okay?’
Way too many times.
And I’ve answered
Way too many times
‘I am fine.’
My voice has been firm
Quite unlike my smile
That trembles
For just a little while
But manages to lie.
I try.
There are no cuts
On my hand,
And no dust
On my shoulder.
It’s just
My damn eyes.
They cannot seem to lie.
I’ve been asked
Way too many times
I’m tired.
But I’ve answered
Every single time
‘I am fine.’


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