Not ev-ree-wún can put words down
In stanzas and lines
And make them rhyme.

Not ev-ree-wún will pour out
Their hearts on a page
To clear out the rage.

Not ev-ree-wún wants to write
When they are in pain
Depressed or afraid.

Not ev-ree-wún can be honest
With themselves
And write about how they feel
About something or someone else​
Or even themselves.

Not ev-ree-wún can be creative
Not ev-ree-wún can tell the truth
Not ev-ree-wún can be a pow-it.

The old birds lie in their nests,
Curled up like question marks.
The sky today is mourning for my mother,
And the ground is tired of collecting its tears
In her bellybutton and crevices
Which emerge from its edges;
Waiting for disaster and sorrow,
To make them whole again.
The mountains are beating their chests,
And earthquakes shiver with their horror.
My mother has turned into the darkest shade of death,
Her ears have forgotten what they are meant to do;
And her eyes refuse to open.
Even the undone dishes and
Mismatched socks are unable to wake her up.
As I wash the dishes she left behind,
I observe that they make more noises today;
The water falls fiercely over them,
Screaming on the top of its voice
As if mourning for the hands which
Tickled them every day.
My house smells of death,
Instead of alcohol and an old woman's tears;
Today it doesn't watch an alcoholic father
Beating an old woman like a madman
While her child hides behind the curtains,
Pretending to blend in the background.
The walls shrink with each passing second,
Just like my heart;
Even the cemented walls are failing,
To carry the smell of burning bones on their nostrils.

If you don’t write it,
It won’t come.
That spark of madness
Devoid of need for the tongue.
If you don’t write it,
It won’t come.
That hidden power in your tone
To bring you visions into the world,
A form of alchemy that pales to none.
If you don’t write it,
It won’t come.
That jewel in your belly that glows brightly
That seeks to find you day and nightly.
If you don’t write it,
It won’t come.
The spark that you find,
The visions you define,
The power you cannot hide.
If you write it,
It will come.

Dear friend,
I have been swimming in denial for a long time, and when I finally hit the shore, reality crashed in.
I have processed that I live in a stranger’s body, a stranger’s mind.
I have not lost some parts, but too many that I cannot connect the remaining ones together.
Who am I?
I have no idea. No clue.
I was someone two weeks ago, someone I can easily describe to you. However, today, I’m nothing. How can I describe a nothing?
Empty, lonely? Maybe. But not sad, no.
I don’t know, I cannot understand me enough to describe her, to describe who she has become, or still yet to become.
Whenever I think about who I am becoming, I end up with different cliffhangers.
I’m not a complete story, not just yet. It’s not my time to learn about who I will be.
For now, I’ll continue swimming in denial, hoping when I hit the shore again, I’ll hit the right one, and then I’ll understand my reality a lot more.

Dear ex,
Goodbyes. I have never experienced them on a high level, not when my aunt passed away this year, not when friends ghosted me, not when I lost so many parts of me.
I never truly knew what Goodbyes felt like, until I said my first and last one to you.
At first, I didn’t feel anything. In fact, I have not cried about it, yet. I don’t know if I will or not. I don’t know if I’m holding myself back or not. I do know, though, that I’m not in denial.
I have accepted my decision. I have accepted that I have to learn to keep your presence as a memory, and absence as a reality. The thought of you still brings me pain, and that’s a confirmation that I’m not over you just yet. I have accepted that I have to live with the thought of always wondering if that was the right thing or not, if I have truly hurt you or you were just trying to guilt me. I’ll have to live with too many questions, too many cliffhangers. However, it’s fine by me. I won’t dwell myself in the past, I won’t dwell myself in you.
I’m slowly learning who I am without you. I’m slowly opening myself, allowing myself to not be held back. I’m slowly growing a new skin that you have not touched. I’m slowly losing the parts you gave me. I’m slowly becoming who I truly am when I am not sad. I’m slowly flourishing. I’m slowly growing. I’m slowly healing, far from you, without you.
With all the love you’ll never have,
Raghad