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Noura abdulla Jul 10
Tell me what they have told you about seas, the lost ones,
The ones they keep romanticizing,
Kept sugar coating its depth with love metaphors and tumblr aesthetics.
I've been under the water for years
And let me tell you it is not poetic, it is not even scientifically provoking.
So when i tell you I'm drowning I'm not making significant love confession or some movie pick up line. When I tell you I'm drowning It means I'm out of daylights
to occupy,
It's been days since the last time sun broke through my skin,
It means I’ve been wasting too many lungs on acid smoke and stolen identity,
It means I spilled the half-water left in the cup.
Thick layers of wreckage, fatal survival attempts, and letters of grudges to  your last forgotten birth-day.
I would have set fires to lead you back home, or enough to burn it
I would’ve set flames and birthday cakes
I would’ve lit fifteen candles and spelled your name and sang you a'happybirthday' without sounding like the apologies they never left.
But you know what they say about gasoline invading waters
it's been ages since fire last gave up her fight.

[FLASH-BACK]:
it's your mom first homemade in 3 months, it's baked mac and cheese with chicken, your favorite, you say thankyou as she sits down and puts more macaroni in your plate, sober than ever.
Your dad steals a smile to his plate then to you
it's been so long since this dining room were alive you could almost swear that walls were cursing you names and chanting foreign prayers into your ears
but the taste of normality is much better than hospital waiting rooms.

[FLASH-FORWARD]:
Count to fifteen, and fell yourself with objectless activities to avoid becoming,
because it's better sleeping away your reality than acknowledge it, isn't it?
Between Your Father's empty liquors,
And your Mom's Xanax ,
count to fifteen.

[REWIND]:
the noises calls out of the bathroom just like the one on your thanksgiving
Count to fifteen,
This is not what you think it is
Count to fifteen.
It is what you think it is.
Count to fifteen.
it's never your fault
Count to fifteen.
psychiatrists say it'll pass.
Too Much statistics to put faith into

[PRESS PAUSE]:
Plates are empty, again
Packed Bags under your eyes beneath thick walls of unsaid iloveyous, chocked up on a family dinners.

[PRESS PLAY]:
Now it's just you and your dad again
They say it's for the best,
They tell you everything will be okay
And You tell your friends you're fine,
because why other wise?
That the earth isn't swelling, that you aren't sweating, that you prefer long sleeves even in the hot summer days because why not, right?
Like big cycles of lies and vice verses of irony.

But for all what’s worth, may my words give you the lifeline you need.
And may you let die to let regain to let life breathe you again.
until your lights come undone
And the sun deport its creators
And seek you instead;
Every person you came to love was already dead and they shoved their corpses and broken teeth down your throat like a blackhole branch and nostalgic chaos
cremating all the bodies they’ve occupied, but still it tasted too familiar to your common sense that  you let it.
Or is it okay as long as it's spoiler free, and less relevant to your story standards, and case scenario?
The sky is almighty,
and your bedroom is not the color of burning, and your skin feels like skin again
but the sheets still smells like disappointment.
It's only then when mirrors start calling you names but yours.
The face on the other side of the mirror looks right at you,
the way your father does,
The face on the other side of the mirror looks nothing like you,
and you wanna break and smash every piece till your knuckles go numb and your reflection is covered with sour blood.
No, this is not a poem.
Coughing sorrys and mourns on
all the things you could've saved
is never poetic.
It is coating sadness in a paradox
It's a table for one, at holidays
Or maybe it's just the pills you chewed on to sedate your self-accept to sleep last night, or the night before,
or was it the night you divorced your self-approval made all the versions of you that would've still been prouder an extreme you.
So you bandage your knee and do not look at the sky for invitation.
The sky is not happy about it either,
but sky let you be,
because you're not your own story's Cinderella,
not the protagonist,
not the shoe,
not the ballroom,
not even the wedding bells when the curtains closes.
your only must is to make sure it never clicks to 12 O'clock.
Your only job is to enjoy the view from the backseat and stay at serve every time they think you should.
just like what the guy on the other side of the mirror says:
"drink your tea and never stop saying thank you no matter how many times it burns your tongue."
and it burns.
and you vowel thank you, and sorry, and pardon me, and it's my bad, and I'll do better I promise."
You shove it aside and shame it off.
You sink it in and drain your mouth.
You shrug it astray, until your shoulders start to cramp and gets heavier with every namesake hour and you just want to go home.
And it's alright until it hits you:
all this content was your own household in satires and poor metaphors.
You almost wanna crash every windowsill and picture frame or **** yourself trying,
Before you toss back up your apron and practice the mirror man words.
only this time you mouth them to the sky in reverse.
And only this time sky does not let it go.  
Only this time the sky publishes her response.
Only then you're no longer the seeker underneath.  
You're stuck inside a mirror,
you are the mirror-man now,
watching the world from a glassware and telling people to drink their tea and say thankyou no matter how it burns their tongues.
Today I visited the town we first met
It felt strange and persuasively calming,
I mean i wanna say i feel happy by the familiarity of the overall (seeing the landmarks, those tiny colored waterfalls near the mall back when i was a kid, my not so favorite school, all those aligned streets in slick rythem that led me home every time I thought I lost track) but see it surprisingly hurts because all I could think about when the sun hits my eyes is how i can blindly remember the way to your front lawn as if it was mine.
It hurts because I know i can drag my feet to your home in this right very second, I could find you in a pitch black evening by the way your feet strikes the earth, and I’d catch up to you and I’d tell you about how I’ve been since you blocked me from your contact list and how i now prefer iced coffee over hot drinks and how i no longer drink orange juice because it causes me heartburn and my well to live curls up in fragile shells and under my finger nails like small rice i hate it because I’m my own wide awake walking ******* menace.
and I miss you.
The thought of you missing a year worth of new findings and updates makes me linger on meals, and under cold showers; because all i wanna do is tell you how it turns out I’m allergic to hair dye, and henna, and pretty much any outsider element that touches my skin for more than thirteen minutes in total.
How I like my new short burnet hair, and that my sister had her first babygirl which makes feel old and I still don’t know if I love it or hate it yet.
and that I grew found of  black coffee, and
how badly i want to adopt a cat as if my life depends on it.
And I AM Angry.
I’m ******* because I wanna ask you how you doing, and how your life away from me been treating your codependency, has it mend you well,
Has my broken glass of memory still hunts your comfort zone.
i want to let you know I still like my Oreos and cereal with cold milk, and I like the way music hold me right back from the end edge of living every night after two thirty in the morning.  and how much i hate how the moon is plain still, and is not as everlasting and it makes me teary eyes for a quarter of a second, and the weather treats my mental health,
I’m ****** because I feel prisoner in my own bone cells and mind frame, and body image and people’s ******* expectations.

I render my mind games into hoping some kinda nature element manipulate you to text me back or persuade you enough to withdraw
Baby, if I’m still in a place to call you that,  if i told you I’m at our favorite place in town would you meet me half way?
because I am really sick of being an afterthought.

— The End —