Sorry this is another miserable post, I only know how to write about miserable shit in life </3

07/04/2026

Tear down the walls, burn the whole building down, the memory box is better as ashes I keep in a jar on my shelf. Morbid, like I’m keeping the ashes of someone I can’t let go. Yes, I can’t let these memories go because who would I be without the extent of my pain. How can I be eternally wounded if I find it in me to let go of the pain? I wonder whether along the way I’ve developed Stockholm syndrome: where I’ve developed an attachment to every single road that leads downhill. Or something else, where my whole identity is woven into all the things that threw me off the cliff. What is self-identity if all the arrows point back to all the triggers, if all the themes surrounding my name are just synonyms for the agony?

I guess I’ve been defined by it too long to believe there could be a world outside of misery. That I might be somebody outside of shy and timid and heartbroken.

Count your cigarettes father. How many are missing, how many did you take? Turn your eyes on me, ask me how many I had. Do you just pretend you don’t know, that you can’t smell tobacco on my clothes or is the sweet cherry and soft vanilla stronger than the taste of death? If I shut my eyes, the last one I took resurfaces on my tongue. Longing burns, my fingers reach for another that isn’t there. You’re in the house. I can do it in front of you, show you that I’m like you. You are me, I am you. Father, we’re both the same.

I can’t do it in front of you. I can’t show you that I am you.

I was only at my best swallowing your sleeping pills father. The nights were easy because they didn’t exist anymore. I didn’t have to lie awake and overthink about every little thing. About all the big things. All the pent up hatred inside of me faded away because the darkness and dreams cradled me. Even the nightmares ceased to exist. I became addicted to that rest, but you took them away, locked them and took away the key. I’m back to lying awake on my bed and battling the demons with no distractions to save me from my fears.

Rotten corpse, return to where you belong. - I’ve returned.

I’m afraid of myself and all the ways my body could turn on me and send me to death when it’s too early. My lungs stutter, gasp, choke. The cardiac muscle races - always fighting - too scared for what would happen if it stops running. Who’s behind you darling, that your arteries are always filled with adrenaline and your veins with acidity? Anxiety is chasing me. It always has.

Those scars are too wild for this world, too jagged, spontaneous. Your face is was perfect last night. If I burnt roses and wove its incense with my dna, what would you mistake it for? I’ve already left the romanticist in me behind to rot, and the decay is reaching up to me. No amount of my favourite arab perfumes will cover the smell of death on me. I died long ago.

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Press your hand against my cheek. Do you like the symmetry of my burns? It’s a fire, it fucking burns, just like tasting the flame of my father’s firelighter. My lips look smaller against my face now. Mother hates my natural lips. Too plump. Do you like my eyes lined with kohl smudged by the tears? I forgot to wear waterproof eye liner. My brown lipstick stained the white silk sheets, mother. Better keep the sheets black.

Yes, black. Will you mourn me in pure white, in ivory as though it were a wedding. White is not a wedding colour in our culture. Then commemorate my death in the vibrant reds of my homeland. Pay someone to do my henna, floral designs, I prefer the floral designs mother. Do you know that? Then for the sake of it, I’ll say to the groom:

“Till death do us part” - oh but a marriage with death is eternal.

Will you send me off and throw dried rose petals as they carry my mourning bridal train? Set my sad song playlist on random, play all the songs I listened to. As I leave, play Mujhsa Na.

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“Mujh se na mile ga phir kabhi”

You won’t find someone like me again.

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How will you find someone like me? Nobody has the scars I have, so even if you think you see me in the streets, you’d be wrong. Her hair isn’t dyed. Look closer, her ears don’t have 4 piercings each. Her wrists don’t have the bracelets I used to wear. The necklace around her neck has a different name. Can’t you see that she’s not me, then why do you call her by my name mother? She tried to look like me. Look at her now. But she looks like you, why did she do that then mother?

Tell me what helplessness feels like. It can’t be as bad as the desperation in me right now. The way just by confessing, my eyes tear up - fuck on this sunny day it’s raining inside of me. And how my voice catches - stops. Somebody take the weight off of my chest, breathing was already hard enough. It feels as though I tried to fly but someone cut my wings. And I foolishly believed I could still fly.

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Do you know what I like about dark chocolate? That the bitterness is real, it doesn’t hide its effect. White chocolate is too sweet, a show, a facade always held up, and then an exposure of everything that feels sickening. Milk chocolate gives me headaches. Overconsumed, milk chocolate is too common. Everyone loves it. Nobody likes dark chocolate.

Yeah, but I do.

“That’s because you’re a nobody.” - thank you.

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Always looking in the mirror, princess of insecurities. What the hell have you done to your face? - I was trying to make myself prettier. Like you mother. I was trying to look like you but I messed up. I just want to look like myself again. He thought I was pretty and yet I still tried to make myself look like you mother. I guess I should stop trying to be something I can never be.

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08/04/2026

Lined up the pills yesterday. Count them. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. New count today. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. One of them is small and round and a pale yellow. My favorite. The one that slides down the throat easily is white and big and it kills off the physical pain. I always have packs and packs of it. There’s too many pills in this house. Everyone’s addicted. Addiction is real.

Pretty woman that found my lips cute is coming today. Adorn your lips baby girl. Sweet tea lipstick, mauve lip liner, petal coloured gloss. Line your eyes, edgy mascara, that one soft black eye liner. If you feel cute enough, use the dark brown mascara instead.

That one woman that hopes her kids will be like me when they grow up, stop wishing it. You don’t want them to be like me, you don’t want it at all, I swear you don’t want it to turn out like that. Damnation. You’re ruining what they could be. Stop. You don’t want it. I’m honoured. It’s sweet of you. No. Don’t wish for them to be like me. Please.

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Hey, let them be normal. WHY CAN’T YOU BE NORMAL? How can you be normal if a knife is pointed at you on a daily basis? scream. scream it all out. Cry yourself to bed again. Cry yourself to bed again? Not a bad idea. Crying is an addition too. It helps me go to sleep. The effort of holding yourself, of doing something therapeutic, of wiping your tears but crying the whole way through. Crying is the only way out beside the sleeping pills.

Wish it all away. Wish me away. Wish for the end of all the pain so hard that it sort of kills you in the process too.

Listen to regardless on the night drives. sit back and pretend you’re enjoying it all but you’ve just felt the lyrics a little too deep again to confess to anyone else why you just sort of died in the car. Now find a reason to rise again, to look normal and laugh. Smile. You need a resurrection for that.

Resurrection? There’s no reason to though.

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Yes there is. Get up. All those people love you.

“No one else can love you like a mother does” - I know mother, no one can love me the way you did. No one can make me hate love the way you did. You didn’t need to say that for me to know. I already know all of this, rub more salt in the wounds mother. The sting is so constant I can’t even feel it anymore. Rub a little harder, dig your nails into my skin as you do it. Leave permanent marks.

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Last night the burn was worse. It ached as though someone set my skin on fire again. I was tearing at my face. Dehydration finally caught up with me. He reminded me to drink water. I forgot. My throat was parched, my lungs ached. But I lay on my bed in the dark with no ounce of energy in me to get up.

I don’t even know what to name this mess. So I’ll call it Untitled decay perhaps? Like a reckoning that doesn’t even know how to reach itself, too far away to be understood but close enough to scar. Oh my never ending chapters that never cease to destroy me, being eternally wounded is my story. So I’ll lean towards the story, lying on my bed, with my ribcage collapsing on my heart. Just a little more pressure and there’ll be star-like fragments inside of me. Break me. Break me.

No one can love me like you did mother, no one can leave me crying to sleep as often as you did. You can stop rubbing salt into the wounds now, my skin is starting to die, decay has caught up to me.

Lishyx

There’s a particular death I am subjected to each sombre, starless night of the year. False smiles are so continuous, linear, endlessly existent upon faces. The effort to tear them away shakes, digs through the foundations of my walls, and threatens to break all I strive to protect and then bury me in its ruins. So I choose to keep the false smile on this night till I get the moment to myself. That silence. To be entirely alone. The solitary confinement my senses are subjected to beckons the release.

And at the edge of this cliff, I accept the fall.

Welcome to the day I despise so freely, so effortlessly. The day I was born. To ruthlessly and directly confess, I wish that I were aborted or a mass of blood that couldn’t survive the nine months, like two of my siblings that could have been. This piece of my nightmare. I wish that I had become what my body fears most, a miscarriage.

On this day, or rather, in the dark, rainy storm that approaches at night, I always somehow swallow enough heartbreak to have the energy of release, of tears and spirals. I wish that I were the daughter of a better man, one whose daughter had burnt alive that cruel night and spent his life grieving her. I wish that I were worthy of being grieved and that if the angel of death carried me away in his strong arms, that I might have had a life before that I’d want to stay in, and to ask the angel to take me back home.

But I dance in the court of the Queen of Heartbreak. The agony of existing scars and my body chases me into the corners I cannot even name. Holding myself while crying is a difficult task, let alone simultaneously wiping the tears and carrying out a therapeutic act.

I thought you were better. You held me, pretended to change.

You’re still the monster I can’t even name.

And to have someone hold me tonight would be a blessing. But I’m left all on my own, suppressing my cries and hoping to silently join the rising storm outside. I was born in tears and drenched in blood, and I fear the day I die, I shall decay in tears and in blood.

Each year, I choose to remember life from the earliest memory down to the recent reason I cried. I’ve been carved into believing I was the cause, then the course. But the consequences are I can’t untie myself from the blame so I just pour gasoline over the memories and light a match to create an inferno to burn in. And burning is exactly what I do - but it feels wrong, the shivers mistimed. The crescent-shaped scars on my skin demand permanence where they receive none. I do the same. And I’ve done it all my life, and I might till the day I die. Sweet sixteen, you enticingly promise a night coated in agony, in tears.

A I always tell myself, I’m prepared. Even though I never am.

Lishyx

I’m offered a rose-flavoured Turkish delight, one of the most perfect desserts. But it’s coated in dried roses, dehydrated remnants of love. Almost as though my tears weren’t enough to keep them alive. Almost as though the river of our love has been lost to a drought that I fear might never end. I wonder if you would ever pluck these roses from the ground to offer them to me. Each petal is clear, distinct even. Shrivelled up and pressed onto the sugar bliss, I’m certain that in another world, I am one of these petals, so infatuated by your presence that I cling to you just to exist.

I do that in this life too, just to stay whole. In that harmony, I’m eternally fixated against you, because in that moment, I’ll find the home I’ve spent an eternity searching for.

In this life, I bite into the dessert and the taste itself is intoxicating. Proudly, I can say I know what the death of red roses taste like because it’s taste has infiltrated my senses, and I’m caught in that moment. I used to drink rose water, feeling foolishly romantic, with the taste almost an intrinsic undertone on my skin. My kisses taste like roses too.

Now, I drink in the sight of you and the familiar taste of those silky petals against my teeth claws me to the past. Love has always been a weakness. Yours is a dire necessity like pretty innocent affection turned to ruthless addictions. It’s like dancing in the rain, bathing in the death of my roses and hoping I don’t get sick later on.

For this heartbreaking world, I learnt to dance on pendulums and burn roses as I did it. Your love is like the roses, revived and just as hypnotic. I don’t dare destroy these petals. I let them destroy me.

Perhaps to still believe in the name of love when swallowing those lifeless petals in my mouth is difficult. Your distance scars me deeper each night and buries further into my veins. These sensations become a means of my decay, brutally ripping away any comfort I ever had. I’m left swallowing a cruel woe that knifes through my defences and tears me apart.

So do you still love me sweetheart? I wonder who burnt away the thorns on the stems of my roses. When I eat the Turkish delight, the thorns return to haunt me, dig into me, and I’m left whispering my apologies with my throat painted in burgundy and the metallic taste of my decay present on my tongue.

But this is all a process of pain and I whisper sugar-sweetened words to comfort myself that you still love me as I do you.

I’m sorry darling, that your love tastes like rose-flavoured Turkish delights, because as sweet as the taste is, the thorns of my roses are chasing me, clawing their way past my defences and I can’t unsee these reckless, ruthless fears of mine.

-Lishyx

19/02/2026

From Her never-ending chapters…

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I was so desperately waiting for it to snow, saddened by the lack of angelic beauty on my morning walks. But today it snowed and of all the murmurs of happiness, adoration and the urge to leave school from my peers, I merely smiled and thought of you.

In my heart, some bandages began tying up the torn parts, for this month - that I used to silently despise - became the month of blessings. God has answered my pleas continuously and the snow was just something I had prayed for the night before. But of all my prayers, you stand as the most constant motif, dearest muse.

The sky was a sheet of white. A glorious expanse crying the prettiest tears that I wanted to tilt my head back and taste. I wondered where the sky’s lover was, why she always cries as often as I do. Why her tears kindle life where mine epitomises death.

The future dawned upon me as I took some of the snow in my hands. Again - I so desperately thought of you. I wished that I were the snow and that the palms of your love would carry me even if they ruined me. What would a snow day look like in three, four, five years? How many years would it take for you to be at my side, so all the wild tales of my fantasy could finally kiss reality?

My heart desires this time next year to be in your arms. The year after in your arms. All the years after to be spent in your arms just to soothe that pang of yearning that struck me when I realised this brutal day was one void of your proximity. All I would ever want is the eternity of you for I have long desired to be a snowflake that absorbs into your skin, becomes a part of you, at that first point of contact. The whole act would burn like the flames I’m content in drowning under for I wish I could bury myself within the lines of your soul.

And when I do, I would call upon the blessed ground covered in snow and beckon you to come and engrave our world with snow angels and the kind of pretty memories the sky longs for. That I yearn for too.

It snowed today and I thought of what it would feel like to gaze out of the window at the act, wrapped in your arms, knowing I exist in the eternity I desire for. To close my eyes and breathe in the reality of us. A soft, care-free breath taken in trust. Not the gasping act in which I fought for air that corrupted me at sunset when the cold bit my face and the snow was melting away. That felt too vicious, disrupting the gentle piece of my mind infatuated with you. The cold began to destroy me, and I wondered if I cried, would the tears freeze on my face out of desire to cling to my decaying self, or whether they would fall like pretty snowflakes, uniquely patterned to never look like the others. I wondered if I’d recognise the pattern if they ever dared to haunt me. I wondered if the sky was beckoning me to join its ranks at the golden gates of heartbreak, for the heartbreak has always intrinsically aligned me with nature.

But even for all the snowflakes in the world, I would not choose to be mute in my words than silent in my love. If you took away the pen from my hand, I would accept it because I have loved you so long that it feels impossible to dream of life without you. I would not want to either.

The same way I gazed at the pastel radiance of dusk that appeared between the ivory clouds, I wish I could gaze at you, amplified by a higher intensity.

It felt like a glimpse of heaven during the pain of my world. It reminded me of how the heartbreak was beautifully damning but your re-emergence would always be what I would adore most. It snowed today and I thought of you, as I always do, but you were especially close today my love.

Lishyx

It’s midnight. The next day. And I should be asleep submissing to a dream I’m chasing. But instead, as I do each night, I rush to the garden to see the stars. I can’t ususally see the moon from my garden.

But tonight I can. And the supermoon is in full glory and it looks as though nightfall just hit. I stare at the moon. I trace the way it moves across the sky. I treasure the beauty of it and wish I could capture it. I wish I could capture those rays of pure threaded moonlight and frame them on the walls like a pretty reminder. Like a pretty reminder that beauty still exists in this world.

Even the clouds that shroud the stars made way for the moon, like a silent lover. As I stare up at the moon, I think damn this, this is gorgeous. God made the world so beautiful.

And the moon, the moon whom humanity has loved since they began basks in the glory, yet very few venture to the outside world to watch a glimpse of this phenomenon. Very few see the glory of an ocean of stars and the moon. I don’t drag them in my work for no reason, or for the sake of having something pretty to talk about. I’ve loved them for a long time. They’re a part of me more than anything else.

Sometimes even more than the writing.

And I don’t pretend to love the moon just from today. I turn around to face towards the moon and love her as she deserves in a world where they photograph her beauty and turn away.

I wish that in this world, I could give the moon the love and attention she deserves from every single soul. So that on a clear night, when she’s as glorious as ever, she can know what it feels like to be seen. To be understood.

She orbits us, and yet I think we should orbit her.

The moon is so beautiful and yet they only see the sun’s light where I see the moonlight. Yet don’t you think she’s tired of being seen as the reflection of another when her own beauty refines the night?

“And if you are to love love as the moon loves, it does not steal the night, it only unveils the beauty of the dark” — Isra al-tibeh

Does the moon burn you? Does she make me fear walking out? No she doesn’t.

And for me, the moon will always be the one I loved first.

Wouldn’t you despise it if you were labelled as the reflection of another and nothing more? If you were labelled and had no value on your own in the eyes of people who turn away from you to carry on with their lives? With people who are ignorant of you and throw around words that are meant to sum up all of you?

And I’ve known how it feels for someone to despise me, because they see me as a reflection of themselves. And she thought I was stealing her own idenitity, when there were only a few things that were the same. A few things that existed before I met her.

But she, like the sun, thought I stole her beauty. But I, like the moon told myself I could never amount to hers.

Lishyx

From Her never-ending chapters…

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