msanonymous

[msanonymous]

the fleeting goodbyes

the train howls, a metallic wail slicing through the hush of twilight,

its wheels inching forward, dragging time along with it.

i need to hold you a little longer—

breathe in the scent of home clinging to your

sky-blue shirt,

twist my fingers into its fabric, tear it if i must,

but never let go.

even if the station fractures into a stampede,

the tide of bodies forcing us apart.

the world’s already in an apocalypse—

you can see it from my eyes if you don’t believe me,

the wreckage smoldering beneath rust-tinted glass,

a quiet ruin reflected in every blink.

and maybe that’s why they say i have yours—

the same swirls of caramel with flecks of rust,

like embers dying in a sea of honey.

but i always needed a mirror to see tears in them,

as if sorrow only made sense when it was mine alone.

i never thought a day would come when i wouldn’t—

when the glass would shatter,

and the gold would seep into sadness.

i'd get on a plane and fly to you in an hour if you ever called.

but will you?

when the world collapses around you,

when the walls close in,

when the sky forgets to hold the sun—

will you remember to call when you're supposed to run to save your loved ones from falling debris?

will you remember the one 622 miles away?

didn't i leave your world when i first decided to leave this word called ‘town’ we add ‘home’ before?

will you forget to remember?

or remember to forget?

the bus is leaving,

my vision getting blurrier with each passing moment,

like rain sliding down window panes, distorting the world between us.

it's harder now—to count the freckles on your porcelain skin.

will i ever feel them again beneath the pores of my fingertips?

or will the next time they come under my touch,

my fingers will be cold, cyan, and limp?

tell me they won’t.

i can't leave if you don't promise me they won't.

but i have to.

i can't, though.

can you do something about it—

the spiders that've made a home in my ribs,

spinning webs of quiet dread, tightening around my lungs with each breath?

do promises even matter?

when fate's already etched seven skies above, immutable and absolute?

should i pray?

or should i not?

in case the weight of my existence cracks the fragile thread of hope?

i need to spit it out of me—

the first and might-be-the-last "i love you."

but my tongue folds around it,

the words curling inward like a dove trapped in a cage.

i've always had the habit of swallowing them down.

who’d know better than you?

you, who would rub my back,

soft circles at the dastarkhan, encouraging me to let it all out.

but i couldn't.

a mess can't afford to create another mess.

& i—i’ve always been a splintered thing,

afraid to bleed where you might touch me.

you hold up your tiny toy car in the air, eyes bright with certainty, and say,

"i'll come pick you up and bring you back if you miss me too much!"

i smile, nod, and roll up my seat's window

so you won't see me swallow the lump of grief clogging my throat,

choking down the taste of a goodbye i never agreed to say.

grief

it sits heavy in my stomach, a quiet passenger on this journey.

i'm mourning the days slipping through my fingers like sand—

the day i won’t be there when you outgrow your favorite shoes (to buy you new ones),

when you scrape your knee learning to ride a bicycle (to band-aid the wound and blow the pain away),

when you first understand what it means to miss someone (to crouch down and open my arms to engulf your running form in them).

sure, i’ll come visit—

but you won’t ever be four years and two days old again.

that grief clings to my ankle like a toddler left hungry,

pulling, tugging, begging me to look his way,

even as the wheels of the car stir me away from you.

do i really have to trade your present for a future

that i’m not even sure exists?

is the road ahead worth the pieces of you i’ll lose along the way?

or am i just driving toward the echo of a childhood

i’ll only know through phone calls and whatsapp images?

the whites of our mosque gleam under the golden sunlight,

the intricate patterned mats and the cool feeling of the ivory marble

that once soothed the burn of my aching soles.

there's a faded, tiny you and a tiny me sitting on the inside,

relics curled into the corners of my chest.

my right eye aches as the wound from years ago strikes,

melting with the new one,

threatening to spill out as it gets too flooded for my fragile banks to hold back.

i foolishly search for you...

in the meaningless crowd of passerby faces,

hoping—stupidly, achingly... that maybe you'd be one of them.

a fleeting glimpse of you for me, caught in passing,

a wistful glance of me for you, left unnoticed.

if by some mercy it happens...

i'll turn and step onto the ivory floor,

pray a quiet shukrana on the intricate patterns beneath my feet.

but it's foolish, of course.

i realise as i see hope smiling wickedly,

clicking her tongue in mockery.

i stare down at my feet,

my toes crisscrossed against index ones—

an anxious habit you always made fun of.

hope stands above me, at the tallest minaret high in the sky,

holding my wretched heart in her pale hands,

fingers delicately uncurling around the grasp.

i close my eyes as i brace for the impact.

will the fallen shards of it on the road ever sting someone?

my worry flutters weakly through the air

as hope ramp-walks all over it with her pencil heels,

crushing it without even looking down.

why would you come?

when you don't even know of my departure?

so i force my feet to move.

walk past the minaret, past the phantoms, past the cemetery...

where i took a hold of my hope by the neck,

rubbed that cruel smile off her face,

and buried her alive—

without a prayer, without a stone, without a goodbye.

~ @msanonymous

[msanonymous]

A love so quiet, so familiar, that it lingers, like a melody carried from one moment to the next, woven into the fabric of our days. The kind of love that sneaks up on you in the smallest moments: when I catch myself humming the tune, of the song you were absentmindedly singing last night while doing the dishes.

It's Saturady and the world hums with restless energy: neon lights flickering, air heavy with static, laughter spilling onto sidewalks, car horns and conversations blending into the night. But we are here, together. Home. I step into the lounge and find you crouched beside the CD box, brows furrowed in concentration as you search for something. Then, triumph—your fingers close around a familiar case, and you hold it up like a victory— my favourite movie. You remembered. Last week, we watched yours. Just like that, a smile tugs at my lips, warmth blooming in my chest. And before my heart can soar any further, the doorbell rings—our takeout, right on cue!

By the fireplace, we sit, different books in hand, the only sounds between us the gentle crackle of burning wood and the soft rustle of turning pages. Peace and quiet. From time to time, I steal a glance at you— only to look away quickly, afraid of being caught. Unaware of the fact that you are doing the same thing.

When you know they're home, by the familiar click of the lock, by the quiet rhythm of their footsteps. So you go to check, and get greeted by their smiling figure— a real, warm, eyes-lit-up kind of smile. So you smile too.

And on the nights when they don't find you waiting, they look for you. From room to room, until they find you crumpled up inside one's floor, “There you are,” they think instead of recoiling from the sight. They don’t rush you, don’t demand explanations. They just come close, wrap you in their warmth, and you ease. No words, just presence. Just little particles of love floating in the air.

I just want a quiet love, with no grand gestures or elaborate promises. People will do the talking no matter what, so why can't we just be? Be in love. 

So that when the time comes for one of you to leave this world, you do it just as softly, just a click of the lock, the familiar absence of footsteps and you'll know. And after that, the moments of silence that follow they bring along their presence like a warm breeze. You don’t even realize they’re gone until you look up from your book and see the empty space where they once sat.

I just want a love that does not wound in silence. A love that does not haunt me with the absence of words.

A love like— we once had something beautiful and now that one of us is gone, I still find you in the moments of silence. Once alive, now an unburied memory.

Because words never die, but they make you do.

They're spoken once, but can be heard forever.

@msanonymous

[msanonymous]

There are tears in my eyes when you mention taking me to the hospital again.

But you're too busy doing something else to look at me.

Like how it's been my whole life. I don't want to go there. They'll kill me.

Or worse, they'll find a cure to undo the effects of my attempts at it.

“Are you dying?” a kid sitting across from me in a hospital lobby questions innocently.

I smile at him in the niqab and wonder,

If he's old enough to tell it from eyes. “I don't know it yet.” I answer.

“Then are you here to get a new hand like me?"

I avoid looking at his sling to save my heart from breaking,

as I say “No I'm here to get new blood.” He tilts his head like he doesn't get it.

But then starts telling me about the time he got scared while getting an iv,

I listen to him like there's nothing in this world more interesting than it. There isn't anything really.

He has so much sparkle in his eyes,

that I want to pick him up and run away.

So that I can save him from this cruel world.

Protect his toothy smile from these people to snatch away.

But then I remember what I did to the child in the mirror.

I was supposed to love her.

I couldn't, it's not my fault though.

She didn't have anything worthy in her.

There's a pigeon with an injured wing living on the tree in front of my window.

Everyday the sun rises in the sky and so does it,

or tries to, only to fall below,

hard on the ground, I flinch when it happens, but then at least it's better at this thing than me.

I wonder if I'd also be trying everyday if I just had an injured wing?

Living, not surviving?

I wonder if I had wings in the past and they took them away?

Is that what the scars on my back are trying to say?

If yes, than what about the scars on my heart. Is there a way to fix it?

Fix it? Fix it? Fix... Me?

That's what my sister says to me while,

We walk back home when the moon's high in the sky.

“I wish you could fix yourself, so we could go back to how it was before.”

How was it before? I try to remember.

I can't. There was no before.

Just pain and some more.

“What in me needs to be fixed?”

I hesitate so much before asking the question

that my voice betrays me and dies in my throat.

She speeds up her pace and reaches home.

Leaving my bones behind to shiver in the wind,

I look up at the sky and ask

“What in me needs to be…

My voice dies from humiliation before reaching above

A new dawn comes, outside my window, but it stays night inside,

I prostrate before my lord and ask him for relief, despite being unsure if I deserve it,

I walk to the park, under the sky of birds leaving their homes behind.

I didn't. I don't even know where it is or if there's one mine.

There's an old lady smiling at the sight of kids playing.

I can't help but notice the way her eyes crinkle behind her glasses as she does so.

Maybe I stared too long, because she's turning her head towards me, I turn away quickly because it's mortifying,

To be seen, to exist, to breathe in public.

“I always loved kids,” she begins, her voice having a motherly affection.

Please don't say you couldn't become a mother, please, please.

She does.

I close my eyes with pain. “I'm sorry,” I try to say but it feels too useless, too small, too petty, too... me.

Sorry. It's the word just like my whole existence.

“I can't either,” I say looking ahead at the children.

“Oh I'm sorry!” she says. And it starts to bleed as the glass coated sorry of mine that was stuck in my throat slides its way to my stomach.

So I muster a nod and whisper what I should've said instead of sorry in the first place, “Fiha khair!”

I whisper the words to myself the entire walk back to my house.

Whisper them as my head hits the pillow and sleep seems too faraway.

Whisper them as relief feels too distant

Whisper them as relief comes to me and says I'm not coming, so I just shake my head and

Beg my lord as my head lulls to sleep:

‘To take me when he's pleased with me’

I open my eyes at the sound of beep

It's of a machine attached to the heart of my body

[msanonymous]

Is this what growing up is? Growing apart from every person I love? And realizing that- that they never loved me at all?

[msanonymous]

can one become a poet/writer even if English isn't their native language, and they started taking poetry (and literature in general) seriously after their 20s. Still possible to be good at writing, at describing events, thoughts, moments in a beautiful way?

Of course you can. I think poetry/writing or any type of art is not limited to a language or anything. Art is something that comes from the heart. I know it sounds a bit cliché but it's true. There are so many well known and eloquent exophonic poets and writers who are known for describing things in the most beautiful way. Take Khalid Hosseini for example. He's not a native speaker either but he still managed to describe scenes in such a beautiful way, and many people across the world felt seen by his characters. Kahlil Gibran is also one of them and I know he's well known for his Arabic poems but he's also known for his English books as well. I mean The Prophet is a masterpiece. Even Joseph Conrad is among them. I first heard his name in High school when my English professor was telling us about the history of novels and novellas and I didn't know he was a non-native speaker until I searched for it months after. So to suffice this, you can still be excellent at describing scenes, capturing beauty in words, and creating metaphors, you just have to take the first step without being hesitant. And for me poetry and writing is an experience of something like- a reader's heart feeling seen by the one on the page. Writing is putting your heart out on the paper through words. And reading is seeing that heart see yours & hearing that heart whispering to yours ‘I see you. You're not alone.’ Or in a more sensible manner and Rudy Akbarian’s words: ‘Poetry doesn't have to rhyme, it just has to touch someone where your hands couldn't.’ So I wish you all the best and I hope you become a poet/writer the history will remember <3

[msanonymous]

I think about all those things too, from time to time. All the time if I'm being honest. But then I think that no matter how big the hurt in my heart is it'll never be more than the hurt our Prophet Muhammad ﷺ felt. I remember that no matter how huge my grief grows and even if it takes over my entire heart I'll never go through something like ‘The year of sadness.’ and then I remember the words prophet ﷺ said at the time of his son's passing “Verily, the eyes shed tears and the heart is grieved, but we will not say anything except what is pleasing to our Lord. We are saddened by your departure, O Ibrahim.” I remember that he said that these tears are the mercy of Allāh. I wonder about how he ﷺ could be hurt but still chose his words so wisely, how in that situation he ﷺ still thanked Allāh Subhanahu Wa Ta'ala and praise Him. I mean he ﷺ is a Perfect Mentor for a reason.

But then I also think that no matter how small the hurt in my heart is, it'll never be too small to stand before Allāh and ask for relief. That no matter how many times, I can always knock on my Lord's door, I can always call upon him and he'll respond. I can always go to Him with a heavy heart and empty hands and He'll fill them up with relief and content. That when I take a step towards Him, He'll take 10 towards me. I remember the Verses in the Book of Light ‘Your Lord ˹O Prophet˺ has not abandoned you, nor has He become hateful ˹of you˺. And the next life is certainly far better for you than this one.’

It's true that our hearts hold memories, and just like how our body parts have limitations like how we can't see past through a wall, can't hear past through a glass and can't feel without touch. I think our minds have limitations too and maybe that's why our minds can't access the memories inside our hearts. Because maybe our hearts have the memories of our time before being sent to this dunya, maybe the thing we identify as sadness is just our hearts longing to return to its Lord, the Creator, to the home. Maybe it's a blessing that we feel it, because every time we feel it, our desire to meet Allāh Subhanahu Wa Ta'ala increases and Prophet ﷺ said “Who-ever loves to meet Allah, Allah (too) loves to meet him and who-ever hates to meet Allah, Allah (too) hates to meet him.” And I think no honour will be bigger than that. I mean we sin day and night, knowingly and unknowingly but my Lord forgives me over and over again. So yes there is sadness but relief will be here soon. And when it comes, it'll feel like this sadness never even existed.

May Allāh Subhanahu Wa Ta'ala let us experience that relief by letting us enter His Paradise.

I've been thinking (nothing new about that) how there's a certain sadness that always stays with you. you think you'll outgrow it someday, that someday it would cease to exist, that if you get this one thing or that.. you wouldn't be sad any more.. until you realise there's no point in running away from it, it's always there .. in the midst of being amongst a crowd full of people or when you're alone, while having your dinner or your morning tea, in the middle of laughter or on a bright sunny day.. it somehow always comes seeping through. There's no use trying to explain it because how could you.. you only know of its existence. but shouldn't we be able to say that we're sad regardless? even when we can't explain it? isn't that what we want.. to be heard and understood.. to be able to share what you feel without it being questioned or rationalised.. to be able to feel what you feel without being made feel like that you're being "too much". it's almost impossible and as difficult for you as picking up a stranger's phone call to say that your only yearning is for a safe place.. because that would apparently seem like a weakness and there's nothing more you hate than seeming weak. It's insane how some apparently little things do so much to you (is time what we do with it or what it does with us?) how some wounds leave a mark so deep that your whole being continually feels it's presence and the after-shocks. I won't lie, I am my harshest critic (which I can't help) and I am afraid of being the way I am because I have known darkness and even though I know I have come a long way..but.. somedays I am the same little teenager all over again just in a body of an adult trying to hold it together and acting tough and trying to calm my racing thoughts and "irrational" fears. your mind has a memory.. but the heart has it's own. Perhaps one can never simply let go because if not the mind, the heart remembers for a long long time, if not forever.

[msanonymous]

They say: “Duās can change what's written and duās can also make it written.”

So I pray, for my Mother's name to be written alongside the names of people of Paradise.

[msanonymous]

“How do you become a poet?”

Always looking/ Hardly speaking/ Defending the moon/ Disappearing from the room/ As if you were never even there/ Drinking more caffeine than breathing air/ Instead of falling in love with smiles, looking at them & just wondering why they don't reach it to that person's eyes?/ Instead of getting lost in the eyes, reading the sadness in them & wondering why they cried themselves to sleep at nights?/ Unsaid words, lots of them, so many that your mind gets fully clogged up with them, & at nights they threaten to spill out from your eyes as teardrops/ Unsent letters, loads of them, too many hidden well in your secret drawers, because of the fear of one accidentally landing in someone's letter box/ “Where is your home?”/ I don't know/ Strangers to friends. Within years. Friends to strangers again. Within a heartbeat/ I think I've seen this film before & I didn't like the ending/ Too many films of memories, playing in your head all together at the same time/ Too many stories of your life, having the similar last page, with the same last line/ “You are not enough!”/ Am I really not made for love?/ Lying to the whole world. “I'm fine”/ Lying to your therapist. “I'm fine, other people have it so much worse than me”/ Lying to your parents. “I'm fine.” “Then why are you crying?” “I'm not, I'm fine”/ Lying to yourself. ‘I'm fine.’ ‘No, you're not. You know you're not.’ ‘I know! But does it matter? No. It doesn't. There are hearts more hurt than ours.’ ‘But then why are you crying?’/ Daydreams & what-ifs/ Always finding yourself at the edge of the cliffs/ Envying & smiling sadly at the people who are poetry/ “I read your poem. It's beautiful!” What about me?/ Not touching your diary for months/ Then writing 6 poems in a day, after receiving 6 brand new cuts/ When no matter what pen you choose to write with, fountain, ball point, glitter gel, the ink you'll see after completing the last line will all be blood/ & then there's suddenly blood everywhere. Blood, so much blood. You lift your shaky hands & find both of your palms covered in it. You cover your eyes with them & sob, drowning in your own flood/ & you just keep praying to God for it to be your own. That the cracks of heart from all this blood seeped through, please God, let it be mine. Let it be mine/ The world hurts you enough everyday. But the last thing you want to do is to hurt the world back in your lifetime/ Mastering the art of stitching the wounds. But never for yours/ Other people have it so much worse. You don't deserve any of the cures/ Letting the wounds you think you deserve bleed/ Continuously, trying to not pay the pain any heed/ But still failing/ & weeping & weeping/ Then picking up the quill & dipping it in the aorta of your heart/ & attempting to create art/ But I think I'm not the right person to answer this question/ Because I am too inexperienced & unfamiliar with that profession/ Because as for me, I'm just a girl looking out of her window, waiting for someone to come & look at her/ & just not look away after/ I'm not a poet, how can I never be?/ But I do think/ That poets are not something that people become/ It's a mask. That people buy one day, at the price of heartbreaks & shattered hopes, to put on & hide the ugly & weak personas of them/ It's something people have to do, you know?/ Because the world can barely tolerate the poets. How many more wounds do you think you can sustain? & how many rocks do you think the world will throw?/ When you'll step out of your room/ As you?

~ms.anonymous

[msanonymous]

Places I saw love:

In my father's memories, when he narrates the story of how he met my mother, with every specific detail just like if it was yesterday. In those memories I saw Love bursting through the other door, with a dramatic entrance and swelling in my father's heart./ The way my Grandfather talks about his wife. And how he says: marriages arranged can be filled with love too, if one decides to be patient and rightful towards their partner. I saw Love slowly coming there with baby steps and staying. Staying long after her time in this claustrophobic world came to an end. I saw Love staying there in the form of hope, hope that they'll be reunited in paradise. In the form of prayers, prayers like “O, Allāh illuminate her grave with noor. The same way she illuminated my life when you sent her to mine.”/ And his theory proved to be true, when I grew up watching my father's brother and his wife fall in love in the same way they did, slowly but truly. And then I looked at my grandfather, probably with the sparkly eyes, just like the kid who first discovered the joy of receiving chocolates. And Love was there standing beside him, both of them with their arms crossed and wearing the same smug expression of ‘I told you so.’/ When my first friend on the internet was asked how she met the love of her life, she said: one day she just walked in the class and coincidently the only seat which was vacant was next to her future husband, and when I was teleported there while reading her answer I saw Love there smiling at the sight of them together, and upon noticing my presence just winking at me and holding a finger to it's lips, as if to say I gave up my seat for the sake of this young love to bloom, they don't know it yet. But time will tell them soon. And It did. Time surely did in the most beautiful way./ When I'm reading my books in between classes and my head suddenly jerks up, after hearing the sound of my friend calling my name, I see Love jumping out from the book, saluting me with 2 fingers while walking away, and I smile and do the same, knowing that Love is probably just going for a walk and it will be there waiting for me within the pages, along with the characters when I'll re-open my book again. And turn to the said friend./ When I was cleaning the old bookshelves in my house and found an Urdu poetry journal with yellowed pages falling out, the binding barely holding the pages together and when I asked my mother the story about it. She just looked at it, a wave of nostalgia visible in her eyes and said “It was the notebook your father and I used to exchange in the early days.” “Really?” I breathed in excitement. “Yes, now put it away.” But I didn't. How could I? It was too lovely to put away. And as I was turning the fragile pages with delicacy, in my mind the wheels of time turned back a little and I saw Love going back and forth every end of the week, carrying the notebook filled with poetries and love and sometimes roses too, gently pressed between the pages, knocking at my mother's dorm and other times at my father's house. Then I saw Love turn to me and say “Time pases but I stay, sometimes in the form of prayers and sometimes in the form of poetries. I always stay.” and then slowly vanish away./ And now that notebook resides at the uppermost shelf of my bookshelf, and I wonder if someday Love might magically appear in front of my eyes and sneak around my room and take that notebook away from here, to deliver it on someone else's door.

~ms.anonymous

[msanonymous]

I want to die. But before that...

I want to experience what it feels like to watch snowfall for the first time. I want to run in the endless fields of flowers, barefoot and feel the softness of grass. I want to make a flower crown once and put it on the head of someone I love. I want to hug little kids and love them. I want to make them smile. I want to make them so happy that they never discover how being sad, hurt, broken, abandoned feels like. I want to make people's hearts hurt less. I want to help this world be a better place. I want to feel what people mean when they say sometimes their morning breakfast and coffee tastes like magic. I want to know how that feels one day and not how it feels when I have my first meal of the day at 8:50 pm. I want to buy that stuffed panda that I saw in a shop months ago, which was sold out when I visited that shop again, despite thinking about what people will think. I want to laugh with all my school friends again, the ones I've never spoken to in years because of my fear of phone calls. I want my parents to smile at me once. I want to see a sky full of stars. I want to see hot air balloons. I want to build a home. I want to paint the walls in it with bright colours. I want to place books in every room it has. I want to make a home in which walls will never hear the sound of glass shattering and hearts breaking. I want a home that feels like home. I want to become strong, so strong that the next time I hear someone I love say “I wish you were dead.” I want to look in their eyes and say “I wish that too.” and walk away. I want to learn how to walk away. Walk away from the sights that hurt me, walk away when I'm standing all alone, staring at the blurred back of the person I love walking away. I want to learn how to walk away when I see people leave. I want to learn how to make people stay. I want someone to stay after seeing all these bruised parts of mine. Someone who wasn't forced to be with me because of the same blood flowing in our veins, someone who'll choose to stay with me, choose to love me, choose me. I want to write love poems when I get to really and genuinely feel it. I want to believe in love. I want to fall in love with places, books, flowers, smiles, friends and maybe with myself too. I want to be brave enough to fall in love despite my fear of heights and see if someone will ever be kind enough to catch me, like they do in my books. I want to buy many, many, many books. And read them by the fireplace, window, lake or with someone I love. And I want to write a book someday about a girl who tried her hardest to love and make people love her but still somehow failed and I want to leave it behind, buried deep for no one to find.

I want to die. But before that I want to breathe and have it not hurt. Just once.

[msanonymous]

I blinked. And August is here, covered in the blanket of melancholy. And I feel like I wasn't given enough time to prepare for it. So I'll just cover myself with it and try not to break anymore.

[msanonymous]

[msanonymous]

I was starting to feel okay again. What happened now? Why can't I name anything I'm feeling now or is it I'm not feeling anything? Am I getting numb again? What happened?

Did something in my heart crack and fall? Or did something fall and crack? Or is it both cracked and fallen?

Why is healing a circle and somehow I'm always back to square one? Why isn't it a straight line? And if it's a tunnel that people have to cross then why in my case both ends are closed and there's no light?

[msanonymous]

I don't like hope. It shatters more things than it can ever mend. How many people in the world are waiting for a letter to arrive in their mailbox that was never even written? How many people in the world are waiting for someone to come back to the home in their hearts while they are already buried deep in the graveyard of theirs? How many people in the world died while waiting and hoping? How many more will do? Just because of this stupid, stupid hope?

[msanonymous]

I'm always afraid to look back.

Because what if I do and the person who I thought will wait and look back at me is already gone.

What if I'm not loved enough to be looked back at?

What if I'm just meant to be let go?

[msanonymous]

Your laugh is like listening to sunshine.

Is there any way for me to store it somewhere and listen to it when it rains too much?

Or is there any way for you to just stay here and go through all the seasons together?

[msanonymous]

what do you do when you can't forget someone even after years? what do you do when you're no good together, when you were always fighting? what do you do when both of you are hurting even after all this time?

You do what your heart tells you to. You tell yourself that it's okay to do the things it wants, because in the end you want your heart to be okay. It loved someone with all its strength and now that your heart is wounded and needs love, you'll love it, by making it feel okay again. You tell yourself that it's okay for your heart to feel exhausted, that it's okay to feel broken. You let yourself sleep a long nap in the middle of the day. You let yourself call your closest friends and say the things you're holding inside, you let yourself eat that entire ice cream container, you let yourself wander in the story that you're reading if it makes you forget your hurt for awhile, you let yourself close your eyes and slide against the wall crying when your heart says it hurts to hold it in anymore, you let yourself do that. And you say to yourself that doing all those things doesn't make me weak, it's healing, slowly, one step at a time. You say to yourself that healing is a loop, and some days you'll progress more and someday there won't be any, and even on some days you'll find yourself back on the square one, and I know it's hard to start again, so you can let yourself rest, but not long enough to make that square crack and swallow you in the pit of darkness again. What you do is muster up the courage to move forward, at a slow pace, but still forward, towards the light, trying not to look back because those who do, become of stone. And while doing all that you let your heart hope, hope that what's coming for you will be better than the one you left behind, that the one you're walking towards is also looking for you too, and you'll meet halfway there. So what you do is just breathe and every time you do, you hope. Because your heart tells you to.