Some days push you off the edge so you can’t help but write. I’ve tried to write as lil as possible due to exams but anything that makes me cry just triggers the writing. Since I wrote this all in my notes, I thought I may as well drop it.
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.
.
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.
.
“Mujh se na mile ga phir kabhi”
You won’t find someone like me again.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
.
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.
.
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