the sickness.

Someone should tell the kids that a raping scene doesn't always happen in the dark alleys their parents warned them about. Someone should really be telling the kids that most raping scenes happened at home ... done by people they knew and trusted. Someone should be telling them that ... too.

When strangers raped, they usually killed the victim. But when people we know raped ... they killed you inside. Which is equally sad. 

short.

I know it's really good to be pretty but kids let me tell you ... it's different than being happy. Happiness needs constant efforts. 

non-fiction.

one time she was embraced by two african men while being watched by her lover from across the street. it was kind of a funny story. it was one of those nights that you want to forget but you'll end up remembering ... forever. it was that kind of a funny story.

the war

in front of the main gate, by the road side, the tension was at its peak between the two lovers. their voices ... high but they were feeling really low. they accused, defended, patronized and they tried to reason. they were having one of those 'adult' conversations that they had had countless of times after entering the second year of dating. their lips were moving fast ... but they hardly listened. it was a tug of war, and they were both equally stupid. their words were like bullets ... blunt but they hit hard. it was painful, she was in pain.

"this ... this is not working", he heaved. "just ... fuck off", the heavy words escaped her lips, a quivered whisper. she turned her back to him as her tears started to flow. "fine!", she heard him say before he walked away.

in the dark, she sat, waiting for her tears to dry. the moon was dull, and the road was almost empty. a girl, sitting by the road side crying - she knew it was such an ugly scene. but they say things happen for a reason ... and she was about to know why.

the nameless

she couldn't remember the names, but they hugged her. she couldn't remember the names, but they wiped her tears with their bare thumbs. she couldn't remember the names, but they comforted her with sweet whispers. she couldn't remember the names, but they kept her safe ... even for a while. she couldn't remember the names, but even if she try it would be impossible to remember the names of the two african men.

"everyone is staring at us, should you be worried?" the taller one asked jokingly and she just ... awkwardly laughed. the prejudice against their skin color ... it was all too familiar to her. once, she was also in the dark place - thinking that skin colors were in a way related to how people act - but that night she knew better. 

she couldn't remember their names but that night they made her a little less ... shallow. it was like they transferred the brightest light into her during their embraces - and despite of their skin color they had lightened that dark place in her ... showed her that she was taught 'what to think' and not 'how to think'. 

the cold hand

"i've been here all along, i'm watching you. what the hell?" his question was left unanswered. she just bid her goodbyes when she received a call from him. he was there, he never left.

for a while they sat in silent. he was trying to calm down and she was just ... confused. she was trying to put all the pieces together in her head - but she was just too tired.

"i'm sorry", he finally said. she knew that apology was coming - he was getting too predictable. but she was just too tired so she nodded and forced a smile. "let's go, i'm hungry", he got up and offered her his hand. she grabbed his hand  but all she could feel was ... cold. 

that night he held her close but all she could feel was ... cold.

clumsy.

today they kept on asking me

"what's wrong, my dear?"

i wish i knew the answer

to why i was hiding in my room not wanting 

to see or talk to anyone for a while ...

couldn't even properly lie when they asked "why?".

today they kept on asking me

"what's wrong, my dear?"

i wish i knew the answer 

to why i kept on going back and forth

because i was always forgetting

what i was looking for ... two minutes earlier.

today they kept on asking me

"what's wrong, my dear?"

i wish i knew the answer

to why my hands trembled so badly

dropping the plates, twice ...

the kitchen got so messy.

today they kept on asking me

"what's wrong, my dear?"
i wish i knew the answer

to why i cursed every single time

i messed things up ...

and made everyone uncomfortable.

today they kept on asking me

"what's wrong, my dear?"

i wish i knew the answer

to every fake laughter and

every single play pretend

i was trying to pull ... hard.

today they kept on asking me

"what's wrong, my dear?"

"what's wrong, my dear?"

"what's wrong, my dear?"

"what's wrong, my dear?"

"what's wrong, my dear?".

stinks.

she wanted him to stay

but she needed assurance.

she showed him the way out ...

and hoped he would not go there.

"that day i watched him leave 

and it hit me somewhere

about five inches beneath my ribcage -

it stinks ... like a lot."

she wanted him to stay 
but only if he wants to.

there were times she wished 
she didn't show him the way ...

but she knew that 
he'd find it anyway.

"he saved me -
the only one who could
tame my anxieties. 
and this ... stinks.
missing him like this, 
seriously stinks."

she.

she is beautiful ... but she's no prom queen, nor she is a scarlett johansson. she is beautiful like the art statue they put on the mountain top where the tourists come from all over the world just to understand its existence ... for hours.

she is beautiful; when she walks, she leaves a trail of sweet glistening nectar and when she touches you ... your arms reaching out to the sky. her eyes (tired), her smiles (tried), her words - they'll each tell you stories of life, journey and her truth.

she is beautiful as beautiful as the first newborn ... but similarly to the other art statues, she comes in layers and behind each layer you'll find the bits and pieces that make her ... her. to understand her takes time. many have tried but they stumbled into holes (which are mostly dark) and failed. some would run home and some would try to fix her - filling the holes until they grow ... weary.

oh she is beautiful ... and like all the other art statues the only one that truly understands her is her creator. and to know her, one needs to have deeper conversations with Him ... because no one else comes close, no one ever could. 

she is beautiful and if there's one thing that one needs to know to truly understands her is that she doesn't need fixing; all she needs is love.

twelve.

i remember when i was twelve, the boys in my class were rapping to eminem. our parents were afraid - they said he was a bad influence ... but the boys grew up just fine.

now, sixteen years later, i read news of twelve year-old boys raped, not rapped ... all the time. and i find it really disturbing how i always found the news a little ... unsurprising. i'm worried, i really do.
 
imagine sixteen years from now ... could we still blame eminem then?

six-word horror story.

seventh october, i am already broke.

paper-boats.

she makes paper-boats
from the letters
she still writes and
she sails them out to the ocean.
turtles choked
making them scientists mad.
from the descriptions in her letters,
they track him down ...
knock on his steel door and
they say, "there's a girl
that still writes to you,
we need her to stop!"

...

she still writes paper-boats ...
she doesn't know how not to.

sexy.

i never told him

how sexy he was

when he lifted his right arm

reaching for his drink ...

every vein under his dark skin visible,

i stole a glance at his right forearm 

where his scar was hidden ...

i swear it was the sexiest goddamn thing.

i wanted to ask him about the scar

but when i looked up 

and caught his eyes -

i changed my mind.

the sexy scar

became pale in comparison

to the way his eyes twitched

after he was caught staring ...

i swear it was the sexiest goddamn thing.