The Lies We Live

angry

"i couldn't stand the person inside me,
i turned all the mirrors around."

There is a rage within me that can not be suppressed. The anger that overtakes every filament in your body, so much that your veins begin to feel as if they are filled with lead. And you are sluggish with the feeling, but it does not hinder you from doing whatever it is the evil within you wishes to be done.

When water is not sufficient enough to quench your thirst, you opt for a darker liquid. It is red, like wine, but not quite. Thick in texture and metallic in taste, after keeping sane for so long, the madness is relief. Your muscles were once wound so tight, but now, they are fluid in their motions, they know destruction like the back of their own hands.

I am equal parts furious as I am sorrowful. This world has proved to be a great disappointment. Once the glamour fades, you are stuck with the reality in which you live.

It takes 30 Tylenol pills to kill yourself, but to be honest, I think I'd only make it to 20. For your entire life, you will be waiting for something that will never arrive. And you will want to die, but even killing yourself takes courage, that which you have none of.

I've met so many writers in my life, and it angers me even more that they are nothing like me. They are content with their lives and they have people who love them and care for them. They have direction in life.

They are no Da Vinci's or Virginia Woolfe's; what I mean to say is that their hearts have never been touched by sorrow. How can one write if they are not moved to by desperation? And you may say that I am unaware of the inner workings of their lives, but I don't need to know that, to know this: Tragedy is written all over people.

I have spent my entire life observing people, from their discomfort to their arrogance, I understand that people say very little on how they truly feel. But actions always betray our need for seclusion. The truth, it seems, lays in the slight shifts of beings, and the pauses where nothing is said, but much is revealed.

I will never heal with thorns in my casts and, my mother is still toxin that I need to get rid of. She is not the only person I would like to see gone. The entire school has made me want to slit my throat. With their self-entitlement and shallow whims, do they not realize that they don't matter? That no one cares?

I am in the wrong around them, but don't think those demons within aren't the same ones that reside within you. I may be outspoken, but don't say that those thoughts never cross your mind. You have an evil that you attempt to display as diplomacy. Your silence is sickening, and your insincerity is atrocious.

And to all the perfect girls out there, f*ck you. Those who show no faults within themselves cease to be human in my mind. It is in your imperfections that I can feel your sincerity, the notion that we are more alike; it makes me feel less ashamed of being alive. In your mistakes, I can see myself, and then I don't feel so alien anymore.

The mosque no longer feels like a sanctuary anymore because the people within it, have left no room for you to grow in there. How do I soar when you won't even let me spread out my wings? Instead, it is overcrowded with ego, the bloated feeling you get when you have put everyone below yourself.

You never smile when your gaze meets with others, and I know you have bad days, but you have made a glaring face, your introductory glance. Did you know that some people don't go to the mosque because of their terrible experiences? Your arrogance has surely led you astray. You are in no position to make judgements of others because your own qualities give me merit to judge you.

"Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." Would you really be ok with another shaming you for your wrongdoing? I didn't think so.

I know. I know. You want to be good, but sometimes your polished life suffocates my own.

Sometimes, I deserve the looks and the dirty comments. I curse in public, and I speak harsh truths in a society that is built upon sugar-coated lies. I come off as ungrateful because I'm always so upset with my own life. I like to live dangerously and am unapologetic in who I am. And because of that, people feel the need to douse the flame that I am.

Girls like me are supposed to be soft spoken and docile. And I shouldn't be capable of writing poetry because I'm so obnoxious. Your words are true all the same, but I'm tired of hearing about all the things that are wrong with me. My skin leaks with the shame, I want to be someone else now.

In a structured society, I am an essence that is unable to fit within any vessel. Sometimes I want to fake my own death and begin anew. Somewhere I can see the sunsets clearly, where the salt water smell of the ocean is never too far from me. I don't really care for the people around me because I don't intend to familiarize myself with them; I do not want humanity to disappoint me any further. But if there are people, I want them to be so engrossed in their lives, that whether there are others present or not, they will act in exactly the same manner.

I want to build myself a world that doesn't depend on the existence of others.