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Vou escrever isso porque sinto que de alguma forma ainda tenho muito coisa de ti presa em mim. Eu admito, tem sido mais difícil do que nunca tentar esquecer um pouco do pouco que tivemos, pois eu me agarrei a esse 'nós' de uma forma em que os 'nós' de tudo isso ficaram mais embaraçados do que meus fones de ouvido. Olha, eu entendo todos os seus motivos, mas ainda dói, dói de uma forma que está fodidamente me matando, meu coração dói a todo momento, e tudo me lembra à você, você veio tão de repente pra minha vida e nesse meio tempo se tornou tanto que só Deus pode explicar, porque nem mesmo eu consigo, e é realmente triste que esteja acabando dessa forma, é realmente triste que você está se desprendendo tão fácil enquanto eu de certa forma ainda te quero mais do que tudo. E foi previsível, não? Eu sabia que ia acontecer, porque eu estou acostumada com pessoas indo embora, mas eu me permiti me apaixonar por você, e me apaixonei de corpo e alma, você teve tudo de mim para você, espero que ao menos tenha gostado de quem eu sou, mesmo que não tenha sido o suficiente. Eu tenho tanto para por em palavras, mas eu simplesmente não consigo, fico me perguntando se algo te lembra a mim como tudo tem me lembrado a você, fico me perguntando se aquela música ainda vai te fazer pensar em mim, e principalmente, me pergunto se foi REALMENTE amor, eu conheço sua sinceridade, mas ainda assim, foi realmente amor? Porque eu realmente acreditei, mas de qualquer forma, eu sinto muito por ter entrado na sua vida, eu sinto muito por ter te amado com toda a sinceridade do mundo, eu sinto muito...

Pensamentos de Noora.

a lake with deep twisted shadows dancing in the shallows that resemble my silhouette, just a little bit more in shambles.

crystal clear ice covers the surface and you can't break through.

you can't claim to know my deliberate depths when you've only observed from stones on the shore.

if you picked a god and prayed hard enough then maybe you could sink down to my mud.

and i've talked to the sun but only at confession time when she has the cover of the clouds.

to keep you on the stoney bay.

i am a firsthand witness to my father's anger. i am his only child so engaged in following his footsteps. the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, they say, but i am not an apple and he is not a tree. though his face is oaky and strong and mine is red and blistering, so different yet so alike, what differentiates us from one another will always walk a thin line of existence and delusion. i am still the embodiment of his worst qualities. i still harbor the nature that scared me as a child. though he was understanding and kind, though his eyes were gentle and blue, they could still grow cold. the weathered hands that once cradled me as a child were still capable of bleeding. the comfort in his voice could teeter over the thick bridge of careful consolation and could harden like ice, cold and unloved. i am a firsthand witness to my father's anger. i am the only one so imbued in becoming just like him.

i wish to be a lover. i wish for my hands to be careful and soft. i wish to cradle the fists that have beaten me and wash the feet of those who have kicked me to the ground. i wish to love in any way that is not pathetic or desperate. i wish to be able to express myself without rage. i wish to be without rage. i wish to be without. i wish.

i am the precursor to my mother's misery. my very being is her burden. they tell me that this is what she had signed up for. that this was her duty as a mother. i tell them she should not have given herself up simply to cater to her children. i tell them she should not have given up. there was a time where she was free. where she could dance and sing and laugh without worry. where she could pursue her career and go home to an empty house with a big dog named after a flower. where she could cry and smile and spin around in circles with her arms in the air. where she could run down the streets of the city in the rain with nothing but the clothes on her back and the warmth of her best friend's hand holding hers. i am the precursor to my mother's misery. my existence has only caused her plague.

i wonder about the woman she would have been had I not been born. i wonder how much love she could have felt before she met my father. i wonder if she would have often thought about someone who has not yet existed. i wonder if she would have missed me. i wonder if she misses me. i wonder if she misses. i wonder.

i am a testament to my sister's loneliness. i am the final piece of evidence that everyone will leave her. we had grown close when we were younger. two peas in a pod, is what they had called us. opposite sides of the same coin. best friends on two ends of the same earth. different, yet so, so alike. so similar it makes me want to rot. we grew distant with age and time, as all siblings do, but have never reached that breaking point where we cave in and come back to one another. i wonder if i should have stayed. if i should have reached out one bleary night where the moon was drunk and the stars were slow dancing in the sky. if i could have done anything to make her feel less hollow. if i could remember that i am not her keeper, that her suffering did not have to bleed into mine. i am the testament to my sister's loneliness. i am a monster for not feeling guilty for it.

i crave guilt. i crave to let it consume me and turn me into nothing. i crave to feel something that makes me just a bit more human. i crave to hate leaving her, to regret it for just one moment. i crave to hate her. i crave to hate. i crave

but what if i’m eighty-five and still thinking about this? what if i am still remembering the pleats under your eyes? the fine slopes of hair on the nape of your neck— wringing me to ashes. what then? what do i do with the knowing? ask this, as if it is not my confession: i will know you until i cannot know anything else. what a silly thing, to confess indirectly. whispering, in the margins: are you understanding me? i am saying i love you. i am saying i loved you then and love you now. still, you.

you place me on the stool in front of you.

stand back and admire me for a moment. for a moment i feel beautiful. truly.

it doesn't last for long, the room dims and soon you have your hand up in front of me. one eye squinted. sizing me up with your left thumb.

somethings not right, you say. you don't say it but i know it's me. not the stool, not the light. not your own hand.

at least i felt beautiful for a moment. so much is not right. i think.

i want you to let me down now. i want you to stop perceiving me now. i want to be a child again. i want to be loved again.

so how do i love? you will ask, but i don't have an answer so i will take you to a field on a warm spring day where the bees dance over the flowers in bloom.

how do i hold you? you will ask, but i don't have an answer so i will take you to an empty coop and show you how to hold an egg without breaking it.

how shall i talk with you? you will ask, but i don't have an answer so i sit with you in a quiet church where the bells are singing to us.

how do i fix myself? you will ask, but i don't have an answer so i cut off my hands and let you wear them until they are bruised and broken.

how do you love me? you will ask me on a quiet night. look. i will say. look at all i do. this time i have an answer, but i mustn't tell you yet. instead i will show you the sky and the ocean, how the meeting on the horizon is brisk and sweet in the evenings. how the clouds gather in unison. how to love someone that might not deserve it. the answer is i will teach you what i know of love, what i know of holding and caring, while also knowing it will not be used on me.

but i mustn't tell you that, because you will not believe me when i say that my love supersedes even me.