Dear future spouse

Dear future spouse,

I grew up feeling constantly substandard and not worthy of anyone’s warmth and affection. I have walls that are almost indestructible; I built them strong with my tears. But with those walls, an endless list of fears emerged to hinder me.

 

I don’t want to be that kind of person who has to give a backstory and an explanation to everything, however, with friends exiting my realm, I ended up developing resentment, bitterness, and fear of intimacy.

 

It’s going to take me months before I’ll get used to you. It’s going to take me months before I open my arms to you. When you’re made to feel singled out and very easy to walk away from, you can never process the idea of a new member joining your secluded bubble.

 

I’m going to unintentionally avert your touch because why are you showing me affection? I thought I was born to be verbally and emotionally abused? What are you doing? I thought people like me didn’t deserve to be loved?

 

My eyes started to water because it breaks my heart carrying an avalanche of worries that were planted in my path by people. I carry years of damage within my core, and I’m going to ask you to hold my hand every second of every day because of it.

 

You have no idea how shattered I am, broken and bitter to the extent of waiting on bad news to hit my door after a good day. Because even good days I don’t deserve. I don’t deserve shit. Even when the day will come, and you will choose me, what will people say upon hearing the news? He doesn’t deserve her. He deserves better.

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The Harbor

Something about you screams “FUTURE.” All of my piled-up concerns just get swept off to the side of the road, and my path is clear of dust and dreg. I find that my fears are slowly evaporating, and the future that I was always so tensed about no longer scares me.

 

It’s as if a future with you, is a future guaranteed, which is mind-boggling to say out loud because almost nothing in this world is certain, but you… you’re the anchor to my rampant ship. You steady me.

 

And I know, I know. It’s all in my head, and this is what happens when you catch feelings for someone, but.. heck even I can’t form decent sentences here….

 

I suddenly cannot write like I normally do because I don’t want to admit; I don’t want to capture this moment for eternity and yell my emotions to the public when I’m supposed to go back to keeping a diary.

 

But I promise you, my sentiments for you are always pure. I take a stroll down the harbor, with the sun dressed in peach, and the first thought that rushes to my head is: I wish you were here. I mean I would assume you would appreciate corny sunsets and coffee in the PM as much I do, but who knows…

 

Is this a letter now? Alright. Uhhh…

 

I promise you that I do write, and I have international readers, and… dang it. You won’t read this, would you?

 

I don’t know. I don’t know… Something about you makes me wishful for the tomorrow that I lost all hope for.

Undiagnosed

I don’t know what is it about me that attracts pity. My outbursts of self-discoveries and reflections forever magnetize an unfavorable kind of response from both people I know and strangers; and I confidently call them self-discoveries because they’re not deprecating episodes! I am being realistic. I am owning up to my downfalls. Do you want me to speak up or conceal?

 

Pity, pity, pity because I am supposed to know where I am headed. I am supposed to be disgustingly social, and anxiety? What anxiety? In this society? No, no. We don’t believe in anxiety. You just want attention, honey.

 

I’ve always loved coming to my blog to unleash every worry because it is so worth it when someone relates to me. If I show you my wounds, maybe yours will hurt less. I am obsessed with the idea of using my words for the greater good. If my words can be a shelter to you on a doubtful night, then let me yell out my lunacy.

 

And when I speak of my myriad fears, I am not saying: this is me and I won’t change. I am saying: this is normal, but I could use a listening ear. If I give you a tour around everything I’ve disguised in my heart and mind, just listen. That’s all I want. Spare me the sympathy.

 

I am battling numerous fears and issues, undiagnosed. I am not a hypochondriac, but I fear being too obsessed with the labels. I fear holding too tight onto the wrong terms that identify me. Am I anxious? Or am I nervous? This dark cloud hovering my chest: is it depression? Is it stress?

 

Is this claustrophobia? But I’ve always entered tiny elevators with people, and I was rather fine. And what is it now: are you an introvert or an extrovert because relying heavily on the safe term “ambivert” is far off from your reality.

 

There’s an excruciatingly different personality that emerges when I’m alone and unattended in the comfort of my bedroom. It agonizes me because this is where I dance with the gray curtains open, sun-rays healing every cat scratch, and where I blush while reading love poems.

 

I want to find the proper terms for every phase and mood for it all to make sense, but when I do learn the terminology, it dominates my every bit.

 

Suddenly, even the compliments mess my chain of thoughts because: what does innocent mean? Is that how people view me? I WILL SHOW YOU HOW UN-INNOCENT I AM BY FORCING MYSELF TO BREACH MY WRITING RED LINES AND MAKE MYSELF UNCOMFORTABLE IN THE SITUATION. EROTICA, IS THAT WHAT I SHOULD EXPERIMENT WITH?

 

I sit and hear a woman listing what her brother was seeking from his now-fiancée, and I hear her say “strong woman,” and although I have nothing to do with this conversation nor do I care for either party, my mind starts convincing me that I must come off as weak to people. Because look at me: I am shy; I am a woman of a few words; I am “innocent.”

 

“Be good! But don’t be too good! Open up, but at the same time, be ready to be pitied. WE’LL LISTEN TO YOU! But we might back away because you’re mental. Are you mental? Why do you get overwhelmed?? You freak out a lot it’s getting disgusting.”

 

I have nowhere to go to but here: Happy alone but I would love the company. Two antonyms can describe me so well that it would make everyone confused. I hate the attention, but here I am talking about myself. I failed in February and cried; I failed in November and laughed.

 

That’s what you have to deal with. This is my purpose in writing. I am undiagnosed and ready to shed my skin to comfort a lost wanderer into believing that this is all normal. We are all silently suffering, and I am here for you. Burden me and let me burden you.

Poetic verses

A haphazard compilation of poetic verses that will make your heart swoon.

‘When she rises in the morning

I linger to watch her;

She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the window

And the sunbeams catch her.’

—D. H. Lawrence

 

‘Oh, come to me in dreams, my love!

I will not ask a dearer bliss;

Come with the starry beams, my love

And press mine eyelids with thy kiss.’

—Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

 

‘First time he kissed me, he but only kissed

The fingers of this hand wherewith I write,

And ever since it grew more clean and white.’

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning

 

‘I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,

Or all the riches that east doth hold.

My love is such that rivers cannot quench.

Nor ought but love from thee recompense.

Thy love is such I can no way repay;

The heavens reward thee manifold I pray.’

—Anne Bradstreet

 

‘Because I always wish to hear of you

And feel my heart swell, and the blood run out

At the ungraceful syllable of your name.’

—Elizabeth Riddell

 

‘I would live in your love as the sea-grasses live in the sea,

Borne by each wave as it passes, drawn down by each wave that recedes;

I would empty my soul of the dreams that have gathered in me,

I would beat with your heart as it beats I would follow your soul as it leads.’

—Sara Teasdale

 

‘My candle burns with longing. It cries with tears of wax.’

—Rumi

 

‘The sunrise, of course, doesn’t care

if we watch it or not.

It will keep on being beautiful,

even if no one bothers to look at it.’

—Gene Amole

 

‘Loving yourself has nothing to do

with vanity.

It is letting the windows open

after living an entire lifetime

within a perpetually burning house.’

—Emma Bleker

 

‘He is the Sun

In whose track

Every heart must follow.’

—Rumi

 

 

‘Like a drop of water is my heart

Laid upon her soft and rosy palm,

Turned whichever way her hand doth turn,

Trembling in an ecstasy of calm.’

—Sarah Williams

 

‘Darling, my darling – One line in haste to tell you that I love you more today than ever in my life before.’

—Alfred Duff Cooper

 

‘Love not me for comely grace

For my pleasing eye or face

Not for any outward part

No, nor for a constant heart.’

—John Wilbye

 

‘See that caravan of camels

loaded up with sugar? —

His eyes contain that much sweetness.’

But don’t look into His eyes

unless you’re ready to lose all sight of your own.’

—Rumi

 

‘his hands

soft his words

quick his lips

curling as in

prayer

I nod

I like this man

Tonight

I go to meet him

like a flame.’

—Grace Nichols

 

‘The words of a master-poet could never capture

the spell that your eyelashes cast upon my heart.’

—Rumi

 

 

‘Her cheek once more blushed bright beneath my burning kiss.’

—Robert Browning

 

‘Many in aftertimes will say of you

‘He loved her’ – while of me what will they say?

Not that I loved you more than just in play.’

—Christina Rossetti

 

‘She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept and sighed full sore;

And there I shut her wild, wild eyes,

With kisses four.’

—John Keats

 

‘Long listless summer hours when the noon

being enamoured of a damask rose

forgets to journey westward.’

—Oscar Wilde

Bard of the Emirates

At the heart of spontaneous gatherings at the majlis, he is the most essential of guests. His eyes are alluring irides of hazel, as if Persian gardens and Arabian coffee harmonized to birth them. His sun-drenched, honey complexion contrasted beautifully with his white kandoora, and his neatly-trimmed beard was competing with the night’s darkness. The air smells of oud and musk upon his anticipated arrival.

 

He is known as the Bard of the Emirates. He would sit in the center of a high-ceiling spacious, living room that has intricate arabesque patterns on the walls. Amid the deluxe chandeliers and marble flooring, nothing beams more than the poetry he recites. Men of all ages travel eastward just to taste the tales that infiltrate nostrils with the soothing smell of desert dunes. He brings the rudimentary gracefully back to their frantic hearts one tale at a time.

 

It is said that his words tightly embrace his listeners’ ribcages, weaving repose with every prose. His royal presence and charisma has fathers imploring for his hand in marriage.

Currently//

A few days into November, I caved in and informed the world of my timid fancy that I have for a child of November. It wasn’t an easy transition, but thankfully it was a fleeting feeling. I was then infused with stress and anxiety this month that blinded me from the world. Lost in my bubble and my “don’t share anything with anyone” protocol, I found myself too inundated with this month’s routine, followed by nightmares, along with overconfidence and doubtfulness all merged. It was just frustration upon anxious mornings upon insomnia. If there’s a silver lining here, I wish the skies would hint me something.

Drinking toffee nut latte

Eating Lindt Excellence milk chocolate bar

Listening to Sıfır Tolerans by Hadise + Hun Bun by Cira

Wearing a black-and-red plaid shirt around my waist

Shamelessly obsessing over Edis Görgülü

Feeling exceptionally anxious and stressed

Consumed by fear and overconfidence simultaneously

Failing to finish reading my currently-reading books

Rewatching Little Mosque on the Prairie

Gradually going back to my bitter persona/attitude

Terminating online conversations

Collecting jasmines and tabebuias

Setting up a flag pole for the upcoming national day

Petting new kittens

Reflecting on the past eleven months

Chasing the clouds

Wishing for calmer days