Life is so weird, one day you have it all  

The next day you are walking down a jail hall.  

You stop talking to a person for months,  

Suddenly now you have an incoming call.  

You say goodbye,  

The way life is working, could that be a lie?  

You feel uncertain  

All the emotions just come bursting.  

What's greater than life?  

I suppose I just got to try.  

If I keep myself closed in, will it be the same,  

The same as when is say it, I don't hold it in.  

But I talk too much, honestly  

I don’t talk enough.  

Life is weird,  

Like me, and I cheer.  

Hoping for my mind to just be clear.

Learning each day to be patient  

It's easier said than done, I hate it.  

I forgive myself a lot every time I slip  

“I'll be okay” is what I tell myself when I start to trip.  

I have walked through darker days,  

But lately I started using an umbrella,  

Life has been raining down on my parade.  

I don’t fear losing, I fear success,  

With my type of patience, I can’t explain the amount of stress  

I have bottled up in my chest!

My mind is overwhelmed

It has been hard to get into bed.

Sometimes I wish I could turn off my head

But it just doesn't stop, its overflowing  

It's like a river, come and sit by the riverbed.

Let me tell you about the knots, the ones in the back of my neck.

It's stressful, I am so over it.

I want to avoid it, like it’s the plague.

Waking up to the sun beaming at my face

I slept grate, only problem I had was my foot was on the break

A good night’s rest in my car is all I needed, you’d be amazed.

forever grateful for you and every little thing that you do.
kindness shapes every little part of you—
makes your heart malleable,
like the dough kneaded by ami
to make me her crispy wale parathas
every day when i wake up at zohr time,
when the world has already started for everyone.

but for me—
the world drops dead when you close your eyes,
and the universe becomes tangible
only when you open them.
at the same time as me.

your voice,
woven in gossamer threads,
wraps me into a cocoon
and then slowly, slowly unwraps me
until i’m a blue morpho butterfly
on her desk,
with a 10-hour mark on her baby pink timer—
matching his white one.

make sure you do one thing at least a day:
either the pre-med questions
or the anki flashcards.

i agree.
we’ll make the chat too spicy in discord—
with firing neurons,
and “i’m so proud of you”s,
and w’s.

i’ll make sure you understand the concept of resonance energy
by making you feel it.

so when i am electrocuted by the d key,
the numbness in my hand
turns into this debilitating blue numbness
in my baby’s malleable, precious heart—
and then we fix it.

together.
with all the scotch tapes
and the double-sided ones,
and the cardboard pieces from your drawers—
piece by piece.

a 4-hour call;
of crocheting,
moving in and out
of the seams of us.

we really did become a mosaic
of all the people that we love.
maybe talking about the teachers
in your khala's school,
knitting sweaters in the kitchen
for their loved ones—
made you feel like you could do anything.

resonance energy.
you carry the same energy
of all the people in your stories—
and with your gossamer threads
pull me back inside the cocoon
when you miss me
(when i miss you)
and fall back to sleep, holding me.

so close—
we're not even a heartbeat away now.

love,
i will find a way back to you in my dreams—
where you are in my lap,
and nothing has ever hurt you before,
and nothing will hurt you again.

call out to me,
and i will be up at 6:24
to get you off your desk.
no more apex without me.

we only play apex
when i’m in your lap as you play,
tracing my fingers
along the canvas of your face,
and kissing you stupidly—
until you are senseless.

Daniel Johnston was an underground American singer-songwriter known for his nonconformist stoutheartedness, vibrant and vulnerable use of lyrics, and DIY-esque recordings. Johnston suffered from many mental illnesses in his lifetime, nevertheless, his creativity shone through as a driving force throughout his artistic career. Johnston is more widely known for his album, Hi, How Are You, which received some mainstream recognition after Kurt Cobain was photographed in the 1990s wearing a t-shirt with the album artwork on it. Daniel Johnston passed away on September 11, 2019, at his home in Walker, Texas. This was also the same day my husband told me he hated me for the first time.
I remember the way the grass felt under my skin when he said those words, the way my face flushed and how my vision became slurred, toppled over, motion sickness-like. When someone says something like that to you and you actually feel it with every fiber of their being it does something so irreconcilable to you. I had never told anyone I hated them before and I vowed that day I would never make someone feel the way I felt in that moment as long as I lived.
I’m embarrassed to say that we weren’t even ******* married yet on that day. When I told him about how I couldn’t get that memory out of my head 5 years later, when I was asking him for a divorce, when I finally saw things as they should have been, as they have always been, how incredibly wrong they have been, his immediate response was “you tell me you hate me all the time.”
It’s hard to explain to people when they ask why I stayed so long, as if it really wasn’t so terrible, I could have left at any time and then I think about how he said to my friend when I was moving my things out, how what he’s done “wasn’t really that bad because look at how she’s grown up and how her dad treated her mom I mean, she should be used to it, shouldn’t she?”

She should be used to it.

I won’t go into detail about all of the terrible things, about the way I think about the worst things of myself because of someone else’s repeated phrases and subtleties, how when I close my eyes in the shower, I'm nineteen and think of the bedsheets against my face, how the cotton felt like razor blades and the hands that were supposed to hold my cheeks, the spaces between my fingers, certainly not around my neck, for a split second before he came to, and we had to pretend like everything was okay and we were in love, and it didn't mean anything because it didn't leave a mark and he didn't actually hurt me, and it was the first and only time, and then the drug problem that wasn’t a problem because we don’t talk about problems and problems can’t exist if we don’t talk about them, naturally. You can fill in the blanks.
I don’t want to explore the darkest parts because I’m scared I’ll never come out.
Instead, I’ll say that I lived a life with him that I imagined I would have grown to accept if I hadn’t been able to embrace how totally unknown you are to yourself unless you start looking. Neither of us really tried to figure each other out, let alone ourselves. I can’t fault him for that, but I can hold myself accountable.
I don’t want sympathy like he does when he logs into his social media accounts and posts for his friends and family to watch his very public slow paced downfall. I just want to portray a slice of my truth. I want to be able to log into Facebook and not worry about people reading about my divorce publicly from the man who feels like he needs to clear the air of something he’s so clearly dirtied. I want to wake up feeling proud of myself for finally finding the words to describe the ways in which I have personally tortured myself through the means of another person. I want to be able to let go. When I had to leave, I had to lose everything. All I have is nothing. I am nothing. Sometimes all I feel is nothing. But I’ve learned becoming nothing is better than being someone's object or accessory. I would rather be nothing.

One day when I am far away from this point in my life, when my hair has grown back and I have gained a few pounds, rather than at the rate at which I am losing, I know I’ll be able to look back and forgive myself. I know I can forgive those who have done injustice unto me, however, it is so much harder to forgive myself for such a total abandonment of self.

For now, I'll settle with the sentiment of knowing that I am not (that much of) a *****, I am not a bad partner, I am not a terrible person or a stupid ******* **** who messes everything up and makes everything her fault.

Was everything really ever my fault?

I know I am brave, I am kind, I am empathetic (to a fault, but I’m working on it), I am smart, I am funny (sometimes), I am capable of being independent, I am a gentle morning after a night out, I am a flashbulb capturing a moment of pure elation, a smile in slow motion, I am a still dancing flame that cannot be snuffed out.

today i woke up and played animal crossing. i ate ice cream and i binged. i microwaved salt and water, it didn't do anything and i felt stupid calling it a binge. small binges count, shallow cuts count too. it's about how you feel while stuffing your face with three cereal bars at the speed of light or storing sharp objects as a panic button.

I spent the day self-loathing and wishing I had a prettier disorder. one that doesn’t get you called a ***** when you just need someone to tell you what is real and what is not, one that doesn't make crawling out of your bed an impossible challenge. I remember how forgiving people were when everyone suspected I had adhd. I would hurt myself whenever i couldn't focus and they thought that was worth a hug, mania is not even worth a kind word. I remember my ex handing me ritalin, I remember not taking it because I was paranoid about being poisoned. there was “you can do it” written on the box with a smiley face. he had the same grin as he f!cked me and spat on me minutes away. I scratched his back as bad as I could so the other girl would notice and ask him if he was treating me right. he thought it was arousing. it was a cry for help.

now I sit on the edge of the bed I spent the past few days in. it got me missing my old bedroom, the cocoon i lived inside for eight years. i sit here alone and unlovable by the standards of controlling neurotypicals, i still can't focus for the life of me and I've never felt so close yet so far from my dreams.
if i'll have to take a step back from my ambitions once again, then so be it.
my only hope is that death feels like going grocery shopping and exiting the store knowing that you checked all of the boxes of your list, I hope my grandma felt safe as she passed.

if heaven is real I hope my hym3n grows back to convince myself I was never in danger. I hope I can be something other than life's mixed, blonde, green-eyed f!ck doll.

spring in suburbia comes reeling around
with the circuit of movies I watch in my head
sun means 'stand by me'
sun means I feel alive again
spring slips its wings down my throat
and I'm outside and it's not raining
I want to go to parties
And I'm graduating sooner than I thought
I hope the younger years find the crawlspace
above the stage in the hall
I hope they find my graffiti
I hope they feel spring too
and all their favourite movies come circling back
something like new beginnings
yeah something like that

freakout. let’s all hide this from our parents together
i want so desperately to impress you, i want so hugely for you to like me
i love nirvana (as of this morning), but i’m not faking
i really do love Floyd the Barber (as of hearing it this morning)
Kurt Cobain died on the cross almost thirty years ago
he’d be fifty seven and I have a headache
this **** smells like that guy who gave me my guitar
my godfather (close enough), my childhood (ending rapidly)
and barbecues in the backyard
douse me in axe body spray and tell me it’s lynx
it is lynx, i’m the one who’s wrong
i feel real for the first time in years, and shorter than i thought
5”4 and sinking into the ground, so dance with me
let’s take our shoes off in the street
two songs, one movie, one podcast
all playing in the background, and we’re off every beat
I love nirvana (always have), I have a headache (always will)
I’m teetering between high and not
is this the kind of **** that makes you creative?
look at the little bag you brought, it has bats on it
it makes you so happy, look at you dancing
look at you on the driveway, in your Kurt Cobain sunnies
this is what he would have wanted