If i write a title will i know what im talking about?

It is just that Mary didn’t like being called anything. She was not a hyper sensitive millennial, she just couldn’t handle descriptions while she herself couldn’t reason her own traits.

Mary, you are so talented! Why don’t you draw on walls, write books, conquer the world, why don’t you use all the potential we see in you!

Amanda would climb tables to act out her overwhelming belief that Mary is predestined for bigger things. But Mary would continue to suck in air trough a straw from the milkshake she ordered even though she is lactose intolerant.

Amanda, she would sigh, I am not all these things. I draw or write rarely and there are million people around me who are better than I am in these fields.

Amanda, I am just another brick in the wall.

Mary would seem very uninterested and passive, but in fact she has been making a lot of effort to do basic human things like buy something in a store or just go out for coffee. To advance in her skills, to finish her college, to achieve anything she had to be born again.

It was too much luggage on her back from the past.

Mary knew that the past is gone and that she must move forward. But all that she never said was eating her inside, and she has never been able to verbalize all that was bugging her.

Like when she was painting. She was never good at it, she was too messy for creamy substances. Her dad spit on her paintings.

He hated her artistic side.

He called her a bitch.

She never told anyone, because nobody would be ready to hear.

And she believed nobody cared.

And at the end, nobody would be able to help.

Mary was writing, but her writing were mostly about her stupid dad who was destroying her being.

 

Amanda has had problems with her dad as well. Almost the same problems, but she turned it into motivation to become successful to prove him wrong.

I couldn’t do it, I don’t know why or how I became Mary and not Amanda.

But Amanda, she would always tell, she would always talk about her pain.

Mary, or fuck Mary, I am talking about myself, I would always cry in silence and move on because time flows and I would forget about it. To be truthful I would never forget, I would force myself to ignore.

Ask my dad about it today he will tell you I lie. He has never done such gross things.

He is the perfect dad and he gave everything to his children to succeed. But I failed..

Because I am a bitch.

To be honest

The tv was not showing me anything new. I should blame my empty head for it. I tried to reach out to the book I was reading, but it was empty as well.

Maybe I should draw, but I cannot create what I cannot see.

Maybe I should write. Explain myself the vacancy of my mind, heart and lungs.

I tried to pray. I did the part I don’t understand because I am a white Muslim. But when it came to pray for things in my life I couldn’t put a sentence together. I don’t even want. I don’t need.

I don’t need? What a lie.

I was growing up with two hundred dreams dreamed in a single day.

I have overdone it. I burned the desire to coal. I did it by not doing anything. I wasn’t lazy. I have been so afraid that I would throw up daily. I wouldn’t put a crumb in my mouth and if I did this crumb would sustain me on this day.

My relief would be to let go. Let go of expectations, of trying, of hoping. Then my appetite comes back again and I feel alive again.

Sadness is when I realize that every time I let a dream die, I die with it.

It is tiring to reincarnate again and again.

But I can’t help it, and nobody helps me to rebuild myself. I do it myself every time, so no wonder the results are the same.

Daily Prompt: Missing

via Daily Prompt: Missing

I asked him several times did he need something more than we had and he denied it every single time.

I saw him yesterday trough my car window holding hands with some woman, not resembling me.

I couldn’t stop starring at the mirror since. My face was so numb and pale. Like the life was sucked out of me and it was given away. I imagine death as vanishing, complete destruction but now, right now, I did not feel dead. I was separated with my soul and I was left with my empty skin. Like a snake that sheds her skin and leaves it wherever.

I was not thinking about him, I have been convinced that I will love again, smile again and feel again. It is far from being emotionally destructive and pessimistic for my future.

I am ugly.

That is all I can think of.

And I cant tell mom, my sisters or anyone I love that I am ugly. They will look at my face and think for a second. Then they will holler no, you are not ugly.

Yes I am.

I remember my father saying that to my face. You are ugly. You are skinny.

And with Johnny, I forgot that. He kept telling me that I was pretty.

But now there is no Johnny. Johnny tells some other woman that she is pretty.

Now I miss my pretty face in the mirror. I miss my features, I miss my youth.

Dad said that I am ugly, hated my pictures and my smile.

Dad hates my bony wrists and my funny walk.

Johnny said he was in love.

Fuck you Johnny.

And F you dad.

 

 

A very sad song

I embrace my sadness as a gift
for every part of me is granted.

I embrace no joy in my eyes with secrets
I let few know, I let everyone guess and
I always reveal.

I would gladly strip my clothes,
and sit beneath boughs,
But even covered to toe, my eyes are naked
and you can peek into my soul.

I try to hide my limbs, the motion in my hips
I try to escape my past that nibbles my heels.

But as a bumblebee entangled in my hair,
buzzing its way to freedom,
I try to survive.

It shackles itself more and more.

Reminiscent of myself I let it die.
Because my hair is beautiful
It should be thankful
And I shouldn’t cry.

Dust in the wind

I strongly believe that the world has never changed, and all that happens is that we bring more perspective to it. We produce more things and look the universe trough them.

There is some magic in music, but never in the playlist you have. You can play songs on your device on and on,but magic happens when you pass a cafe and you hear familiar sounds. When you enter your car and drive your way home,after a long session of thinking the song of nostalgia begins.

You hear and feel the songs better when it suddenly and with no warning starts. It is like the tickling sensation. You can’t feel it when you tickle yourself. When you play a song, you deliberately tap play in order to feel the music.

It is not how things work. You have to be somewhere else in order to feel that moment, it has to bring you back to this world and only then you will feel alive.

We are so obsessed with the desire to take control over everything. We want to be the trigger and the stop sign. We want to overlook every action and every feeling.

But there is beauty when something takes control over you, a feeling, the weather, music, faith, a person even God.

I am not talking about being taken over as a person and controlled like a puppet.
It is about having the right to surrender, to feel loved, to love, to grief, to believe and to rely and finally to be happy and satisfied with absolutely everything life gives you. To be taken care of.

We are dust and its time to start loving the wind. Without it we would never see the world.

Embarrasing -speaking your mind!

She was a friend for me before I even knew what a friend is. When other students would mock me because of my dark clothes and messy makeup she would stand in front of me and convince everyone I am not their type of normal, which is OK. She explained to the simple-minded bastards of closed-minded parents that just because I have a weird chain around my pants that doesn’t mean I deal drugs. Or do drugs. I have never seen how marijuana ooks anyways.

I loved her for her courage and pride. Our friendship was based on her motivational speeches. They were cliches, worn out phrases, tumblr quotes on a filtered image of clouds, but still I chose to befriend her because I loved the certainty that she will protect me. Something I couldn’t do myself. I have never seen her dressed tacky. She would always measure out her outfit in every detail and only then leave the house. I see it as a kind of super power to choose your best appearance every day and wear it proudly.

Compared to my “I don’t even wanna live ” – clothes and even messier hair I looked like a joke next to her

But when I sit down to drink coffee with her, everybody would just look at us, They would stare and comment.

She yells. She literally yells.

I tried so many times to tone her down, but it would always come out like this:

“I am from the Balkans,we talk to loud, it is in our nature!”

Then I question my own heritage. My voice is quite and high-pitched. Nothing like her massive androgen voice that shutters walls.

Sometimes I put everything on a scale. Do I love her? Am I able to love her despite her embarrassing me and protecting me at the same time?

Shame befalls me. I am thinking of losing a friend because I can’t stand the looks we get when she is talking about her day, so, am I being a good person myself?

Once we were asked politely to leave because she would disturb other guests. I never even walk trough the street let alone walk by the coffee shop.

But I had enough, the baggage of owing her fell from my shoulder and I found some dignity in myself.

“Tina we have to talk.”

“What is it hahahhahhahah, look at that babyyyyy!”

I turned around to see a beautiful little creature in a tutu dress and a ribbon band on her hand. She was adorable while she was half asleep.

“Oh my, she is dressed like a pooodle!! Hahahah..”

Her mother approached us carrying her little ballet dancer to us. I wished to disappear and mantle myself with an invisible cloth.

“I am sorry but calling my baby a poodle is not a polite comparison. I ask for and apology.”

“Mrs, I have a right on my own opinion.”

“Sure you do, but if your opinion is directly addressed to me or my family I have the right as well to react and ask for an apology. Is it so hard to say sorry and so easy to say something hurtful?”

“Mam I was not intending for you to hear my comment. Please leave, I am on a hour break, please let me finish this coffee and then continue my remaining working hours – relaxed.”

The woman gave up and went out of Cinnamon’s. I could feel my redness glowing trough my skin.

“Tina what the heck?”

She then rose her voice so loud that I felt she was yelling at people a kilometer away. She screamed about how the woman was stupid and had no taste. How everybody was able to say what they liked.

I stood up and said that I didn’t want to be her friend anymore and went trough the door.

She called me afterward to ask what my problem was. I told her she was to loud and since that night I believed she was ignorant and rude too. She reminded me of the times she stood up for me when nobody would. I was thinking for a moment, then I thanked her for that but added that I cannot see it as a base for our friendship.

“You did something good but you are not a good person Tina.”

She hung up on me. Tomorrow in school everything was reset to the bullying period. Nobody  would talk to me.

Nadine who had a baby last year called me rude and unsympathetic. She asked me what would my own reaction be if someone called my baby a poodle.

Tina preached the yesterdays incident as something I did.

Then I realized I made the right choice.

I have to protect myself with confidence and then search for people I won’t owe my friendship.

Marko said my face looks paler than before. It will be a long way to confidence, but I made my first step.

 

 
Embarrassing

Connected – how far do I have to go?

A long distance relationship is when bodies are separated and hearts are pledged to one another. He had to leave town for his job, I had to stay because of mine and that is how we got here. I am certainly not the type to scream how much I miss him and post pathetic pictures, but I suffer indeed.

He calls me a lot now. He is not having wifi or any other internet connection. So we talk on the phone a lot.

Our communication at home is simple. We don’t argue a lot and get along pretty well. Sometimes I believe we don’t talk things trough because we don’t like even the slightest tension between us. We are missing out on being right and peace follows. A good bargain, I believe.

But since he is in this remote village, researching, he cannot deflect our conversations by pinching me, tickling me, stroking my hair or simply kissing me.

We had to face our fears, righteously.

“Hey pumpkin how was your day?”

“Hey love, it was boring and monotonous. Except that Kitty delivered four kittens.”

“Oh, wow. I thought it will be only two.”

“Yes haha I thought the same as well.”

“I miss you a lot, I sketched your face on one of my papers. I have to print a new one because it was important.”

“Hahaha don’t throw it away, I want to see it'”

“Of course not it took me an hour only to get your nose right!”

I mute for a moment.

“So I have an ugly nose?”

“Your nose is not ugly, it is a bit bigger..”

“So you think I have a big ugly nose you cannot sketch easily?”

“What?! No Melissa it is not like that at all, I love every part of you the way you are..”

“It didn’t sound like it”

“By the way are we going to give a kitten to Carly?”

“Why her?”

“She told me she likes cats and that she wished to have a kitten.”

“When did you guys talk? She is my friend as far as I remember.”

“She messaged me yesterday.”

I mute again.

“I knew you wouldn’t like it but her and I talk regularly, we are friends so to say. It is nothing pumpkin I swear we just talk and send each other links of funny cat videos.. Still there?”

“You never talked about her nor did she ever mention you. What is going on?”

“I think I gotta go, my boss called for a meeting, will you be OK?

“Do I have a reason not to be?”

“Of course not.. I am hanging up.. Bye”

“Bye.”

 

It is not just funny videos. They sleep together. He is been cheating on me with her for a month now. I knew immediately because he is such a bad liar and his phone passwords are ridiculous. I love him and I want him to admit it before I leave. I want to hear a bit of dignity in his voice and responsibility in his attitude. I deserve it.

He called the next evening.

“Hey pumpkin.”

“I know you have been sleeping with Carly.”

I don’t even hear him breathing anymore.

“Melissa I am a terrible person.”

He starts sobbing so ridiculously that I could imagine saliva and boogers receding down his now wrinkled face.

We talked for and hour. He told me that she came up to him first, needing his words of comfort. Than his shoulder. Than his genitalia.

She would show up on midday coffees very provocatively dressed, with red lipstick. She knows about his red lips fetish, I told her about it.

She would be needy and sexy. She seduced him.

He was ranting all about it with his unmanly high-pitched weeping voice.

I remained calm and just encouraged him to keep talking.

When he finished I asked him did he had a choice to back away, tell her about his wife (me) or just stop it because he obviously read her signs.

He muted for a second and apologized.

He had to go kilometers away. He had to call me on the phone and  admit all of it while he is far away from me.

I never knew he liked to draw. I never knew he thought my nose is a bit bigger.

I left his apartment and bought an old mobile phone.

I dragged my stuff to the buss station while tears slide down my cheeks.

“Sorry miss, do you need help?”

“Yes, I answered sobbing, how far do I have to go to lose all I had and build something new and get honesty and love because that is what I offer?”

“Well miss, said the boy confused, not far away because home is not a place. At least that is what mom always says.”

“Thank you.”

The first bus that arrived took me to a small city named Travnik.

There I found myself.
Connected

Playful

Slowly music worked its way to my muscles and bones and it took me over.

In a frantic situation I chose to be his slave and dance to stay alive in this harem. I moved my hands the way they showed me reluctantly before. They had called me pagan and ugly – I felt like the most beautiful woman while the Sultan’s eyes never left my hands, the endorsements on my hips, my very own eyes smudged with black paint from Egypt.

I moved my hips this way for the first time, I would stop with the small pauses in the music and continue even more lively when the sound became faster.

They were beneath my feet and the rattling of my golden chains around the ankles.

Every other girl stopped and left the spot for me. My dress barely touched my skin, I was perpetually in motion and rhythm.

For the Sultan, whom I resent, for my life I hold dear I will show them the flower they plucked by shackling me.

I am a slave girl from the pagan world? See me drawing pictures with my moves and passion and enchanting you with my pagan sentiment!

The drums lost the pace, my dance had to end. As I had thrown myself to the floor as a final act to I felt the purple silk handkerchief hit my arm.

“This playful pagan girl is under my guard. Prepare for tonight. I name you Hurem.”

 
Playful