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All I can do is write, put my pen to paper, tears blotting my pages. Nothing I do takes the pain away; the pain is the muse of my soul. Heartbroken, agile, and able, I push on, hoping I can meet up again with my brothers. Kiss their cheeks and tell them how much I miss them. Even my father’s torture took away innocent love. I feel like a monster all of the time. I see in the glimpses of joy—of true smiles these days—how much my life was torture. Actual torture in ways that most can’t understand. How much death chose me—almost chose me so much. I still feel so behind. People ask such innocent questions: "Why don’t you talk to your family?" And I whisper: "It’s not as if I don’t want to; I just can't." My family isn’t normal. I don’t come from a normal story. And I laugh because I don’t want them to see, truly see, truly understand. The pain is too much to bear. My smile is too wide, too uncanny. If they saw my pain, would they still stay? I have always felt too much in my soul, in my smartness, in my mysticism. In my ways, in who I am, in the baring of my soul. In my unique life path that is a bridge of those that many hate: The religious, the "evil" settlers of Israel, the Zionists, the Jews. The fat, chubby girl; the girl who stutters; the girl who is the immigrant. The ***** one, the pitied one, the one who stuffs her mouth so she ensures she is fed. So I laugh. I want love and try to shove it out of my heart, Because all I have known is love with pain, with coercion, with pain. Sometimes I think I only know how swords taste with blood. How my greatest horrors were laughed at by my own flesh and kin. And I wonder: if my story is famous one day, will they just sit there and laugh? Or come over to me in the crowd and say one day: "You know you were right, and I am sorry." That's all I want. I just wish you were willing and able to come tour the mountains of my city with me. We could overlook the mountains together, look at the ocean together, And laugh about our childhood together. But alas, I am still there—still waiting, trying to not hope anymore. Because it’s been too long and I am still too broken, too hurting. I have put thousands of dollars into my health, and you have only injected wounds into my soul and heart. Trying to tear me apart with your silences, or your words, or your laughs.
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Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 7:09 PM UTC
MMMM
Wordless
All I can do is write, put my pen to paper, tears blotting my pages. Nothing I do takes the pain away; the pain is the muse of my soul. Heartbroken, agile, and able, I push on, hoping I can meet up again with my brothers. Kiss their cheeks and tell them how much I miss them. Even my father’s torture took away innocent love. I feel like a monster all of the time. I see in the glimpses of joy—of true smiles these days—how much my life was torture. Actual torture in ways that most can’t understand. How much death chose me—almost chose me so much. I still feel so behind. People ask such innocent questions: "Why don’t you talk to your family?" And I whisper: "It’s not as if I don’t want to; I just can't." My family isn’t normal. I don’t come from a normal story. And I laugh because I don’t want them to see, truly see, truly understand. The pain is too much to bear. My smile is too wide, too uncanny. If they saw my pain, would they still stay? I have always felt too much in my soul, in my smartness, in my mysticism. In my ways, in who I am, in the baring of my soul. In my unique life path that is a bridge of those that many hate: The religious, the "evil" settlers of Israel, the Zionists, the Jews. The fat, chubby girl; the girl who stutters; the girl who is the immigrant. The ***** one, the pitied one, the one who stuffs her mouth so she ensures she is fed. So I laugh. I want love and try to shove it out of my heart, Because all I have known is love with pain, with coercion, with pain. Sometimes I think I only know how swords taste with blood. How my greatest horrors were laughed at by my own flesh and kin. And I wonder: if my story is famous one day, will they just sit there and laugh? Or come over to me in the crowd and say one day: "You know you were right, and I am sorry." That's all I want. I just wish you were willing and able to come tour the mountains of my city with me. We could overlook the mountains together, look at the ocean together, And laugh about our childhood together. But alas, I am still there—still waiting, trying to not hope anymore. Because it’s been too long and I am still too broken, too hurting. I have put thousands of dollars into my health, and you have only injected wounds into my soul and heart. Trying to tear me apart with your silences, or your words, or your laughs.
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