Me, After Going Five Days Feeling Good: Maybe…I Am… Recovered™…?

trigger warning: self harm

it’s been a year since I last hurt myself, an addiction that took all my willpower to overcome. I know I can fashion words into something beautiful but there was nothing pretty about all that self-hatred, all that anger, loss and pain. all that pain coiled in my stomach, gnawing at me from the inside. there was absolutely nothing beautiful about scarring a body that works so hard to keep going. I can’t make this beautiful or romantic or wistful. but it’s over now. I can breathe. I just want to let that fact be.

breaking breaking breaking

I ask for forgiveness,

for a sin I haven’t committed.

bow to the pillar of greatness or madness or whatever there is.

hospital bed number 5,

you’re not here. you’re not here. you’re not here.

(I don’t want you to be).

suicide wraps it’s fingers around my neck and whispers sweet nothings,

flashes of blood and the noose and the pills the rush and the silence

the silence the silence the silence the sil

(I can’t breathe)

i close my eyes and wait and wait and wait

it’ll pass, I tell myself, just breathe and let it be.

I hope you find yourself whoever you are

I hope you listen to music and fall in love and go dancing

find your happy ever after,

with ur messy hair and teary eyes

hospital bed number 5.

Rihanna arrives to the Guggenheim Museum to celebrate her new self-titled book in New York City (October 11, 2019)

the kitchen smells like toast and fresh coffee. I’m at the sink, washing two mugs for us, singing softly to etta james. you come up behind me and envelope me in a tight hug, lean your mouth into my neck and say good morning angel. I make some joke about how you’re up early for a sunday and we both laugh. I turn to hug you, my hands soapy and dripping wet from washing the dishes. we kiss and laugh at the hand prints on your t-shirt. you don’t care. love is the small glow of the stove light. and the break of sunshine through the window. love belongs here, with us, on a sunday morning.

I hate everyone else in the world but you.

Euphoria (2019)

you kiss the lake and catch sight of the moon in its reflection. feel yourself drowning in everything you were once proud of. lost boy, don’t you know? those who communicate with angels are already lost. it is not beautiful or brave. the way the water pulls you in and traps you in it’s embrace is tragic. where is the angel you were praying to now?

things my abuser has tried to take away from me but failed:

1) Love in the form of sunflowers and surprise dinners and intertwined fingers. Romance and deep kisses, warm and safe. Dancing and giggling with him to Lily Allen. Kissing him and wondering what I did to deserve a body so soft, a love so raw and honest.

2) Love in the form of looking after this heavy body, even when it doesn’t look after me back. Face masks, showers and brushing through my matted hair, knotted like a unkempt garden. Dragging myself to therapy and loving all the charred parts of me. Loving me flawed, loving me regardless, loving me unconditionally, loving the me that survived.

3) Love in the form of a best friend. Nights spent sleeping next to her, nights spent crying into her lap, nights spent singing at the top of our lungs. She loves me silently, knows me when I’m down, knows me when I’m up. She doesn’t love me different, even with all the flaws.

4) Love in the form of family, with their misguided love and tentative support. Love in the form of my mother’s perfume and food she tells me to eat even when I feel I don’t deserve it. Weeks spent in hospital, bringing me my favourite food in the ward. Love in the form of her imperfection and how I wouldn’t change it for the world.

5) Love in the form of music, of dancing around in my room to the anthems of my youth. Of belting it out as loud as my lungs will allow. Songs I’ve cried to, laughed to, kissed to, lost to. Songs that held me up and gave a melody to all the hurt.

6) Love in the form of the poet in me. On my best days, she is all that I am. On my worst days, she is all that I want to be.

7) Love in the form of hope. A love that screams I made it. A love that believes it happened. Recovery has finally, finally begun to taste sweet.

types of people: film genres

film noir: wears a lot of black, has a constant air of mystery, effortlessly sultry, prefers to be alone, doesn’t even write down their secrets, probably the smartest person you know

screwball comedy: clumsy, quick-witted, has an infectious laugh, not afraid of being embarrassed, a lot of self-deprecating jokes, fit and energetic, some communication issues

science fiction: has a vast and varied collection of books, seeks out one-of-a-kind works of art, stays up late, keeps a lot of notes, openly talks about social issues, surprisingly existential

horror: wears jewel tones, constantly aching for october, reads gothic literature, prefers gloomy weather, not squeamish, intrigued by spooky stories, a night person

fantasy: decorates with fairy lights, puts flowers in their hair, has a sweet tooth, wears blankets as capes, spends way too much on scented candles, frequently watches disney movies, believes in magic/wishes it were real

musical: wears lots of different colors, sings in the shower, cheerful and friendly, twirls a lot, loves to be with people and play games, doesn’t mind being the center of attention, prefers being out of the house

period drama: a romantic soul, loves lace and satin, goes on picnics, enjoys the ritual of makeup and skincare, fascinated by old fashion trends, owns more than one book of poetry, goes antique shopping

8:47pm. arabic love songs. did you know that there is a whole song dedicated to you?

when you are sad, I’ll call for your mother to ask how the crescent moon can turn full again. I’ll ask her how to wipe your tears and clear the sky, let rain be replaced by sunshine.

when you are angry, I will look for your father in your eyes, soften your heart in a little bowl of rice milk. when you kiss me, I’ll taste all the anger melting away. you’ll taste like paradise, albi, like the lips of Adam tasting the forbidden apple except this is real, this is earth and we will never lose this Eden.

habibi, I love you even in pain, even in anger. I will leave lavender under your pillow so your dreams are lilac, like a sunset over the Mediterranean. I will make you a cup of Turkish tea so you remember that the world is still sweet even when it is cruel. I will tell you in our mother tongue that my heart bleeds only for you.

Complacency masked by the gentle glove of understanding,

(my friends always did say I was too accommodating).

And you- this poor, poor boy who was caught in the middle of a drama.

(You call it a drama, I call it the thing that makes me feel unsafe in my own skin)

“You cannot expect me to throw away 5 years of friendship”

I said okay, okay.

I did not want the assault to take away my friendships after it took

The deep appreciation I used to have for this body

My smile

My life.

But today I saw you give the man that raped me a big hug. 

You know- those big i-missed-you man hugs?

I felt the anger tear across my palms, two fists ready to meet the drywall. 

How could you. 

You know what he did.

You know what he took from me.

And I realise you didn’t care.

Because it was not your body he turned inside out. 

It was not your tongue he ripped from your throat. 

You give him a hug full of familiarity and love. 

I don't want to forgive you. 

I don’t want to pretend it’s all alright.

I won’t roll over and accept it this time.