I’m at the back, alone, hating, motionless, muted, squeezed into a corner between action and meaning.

No one asks me why I hate, no one uses that word, they call me grumpy, not even angry, but grumpy, six letters, something inconsequential and self-inflicted, something powerless, insignificant, something small in a small person, not something that's about society, or about them, just something that means i'm ruining things for myself, something that's in the way of my potential as an object.

You can’t force love.

Pinky promise
I’ll still love your garden
Even with no flowers.

Some nights I wake and everything hurts a little.
It is amazing how long a ruined thing will burn.

Do you hear my longing when I’m silent?

If I could, I would tear this flesh apart and crawl into you…

My heart is the graveyard of my concealed feelings, for you. It is engraved with wounds; flooded with tears.

سأكون دائمًا ذلك الذي توقع أن يفتحوا لهُ بابًا فى جدار بلا باب.

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.

- Charles Dickens.