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Hasnaa Jul 23
Too much is all I’ve ever told myself, to be one that holds not just my heart but the entirety of what I am on my bare skin, is to be to be naked with immense shame.

Am I what I what truly believe? or what I was told to be? Or am I every promise made by a hurt child?

To abandon one’s self in exchange for a forceful invite from those starved of light,

To make yourself small enough to fit within the cracks of those who never had a place within their shallow hearts,

To be able to juggle the minds of those who pierce their judgment onto others' skin like muddy stamps on delicate silk,

To simply question your own heart,

Was enough to break one’s soul into an eternal state of tender consciousness and agonizing bareness.

One might say ignorance brings bliss, and to a certain degree, it does.

The blind fears no longer the broken glass on the ground for he has no knowledge of it, there was never room for fear to grow.

The deaf fears no beginning of war, for he is only confused at the distraught.

Fear grew in place of knowledge.

Knowledge is no different from people for they hold many forms of behavior, beliefs,
and betrayals, but with knowledge comes ones curiosity, and with curiosity comes adventure, and with adventure comes tragedy or at times death.

You seek connection, yet you’re too naive, too young to understand that even friends **** others, and it’s not those who bite at you that pose a threat, but it is those that slowly sink their teeth in you, and as you’re slowly filled with venom, you never realize that the pain of those firsthand bites should have not been as intense, but because you were too busy tending to anyone’s wound but yours,

The thought never occurred that your pain was actually deeper than what you forced yourself to believe, because after all

You’ve been nothing but an unpleasant guests to many.

You’ve been made small enough.

You’ve left your own identity, yourself.

And your heart bleeds, and now it never stops and you can’t stop worrying that you’re constantly bleeding on others, but time has passed enough to leave no aid for you, and you bleed, still.
to heal from the wounds of forever feeling like you're too much
O1
Hasnaa Jul 2018
O1
Darling, I smell like you

Darling, I smell like alcohol and taste like the misery huddled beneath your tongue.

I wonder if you're okay and you pass me a shot knowing our laughs will smother our worries, and it will unravel another night of us swaying with the ashes of our cigars.


Darling, I taste like you

I taste like the absinthial hit of cannabis under a lit moonlight, with somber pants on and revengeful hands waiting to touch me.

Darling, I sound like you


I sound like if wrath was mortal and it went through heartbreak, the weeps of my soul caressing the empty streets where your home once laid.

Darling, I look like you

A vivid smile, a verbose tongue, nomadic arms, **** like eyes, and a jaded way of walking but all so beautiful that;


How come the smell of alcohol, the taste of cannabis and the sound of wrath all distracted from the fact that the next time we'd meet you'd be laying six feet beneath me.

where is my last shot of alcohol darling?
The fear of losing a loved, struggling with their own brain.

— The End —