The more I grow up the more I realize that the roots of my past are not just inches long but meters and kilometers. The more time passes on the more I recollect more hands that weren’t my parents.
The pain, no matter how much you see, how much I explain will not express an ounce of what I saw.
Not only is the scent, fabric, lighting, smile and all that so very vivid.
the traces of the roots are within me.
try slightly touching me when im asleep to see me panic and curled up of fear.
Ask me why after museum trips I am tired and lethargic
Ask me why I am terrified of failure.
or why when a man follows me in a mall I am helpless and almost freaking out
why I don’t like the color blue with white and black stripes
why I hate Oud
Why I can’t keep friends
Why I’m such a light sleeper
why I can’t scream no matter how hard I try because I screamed before and nothing happened. I can’t scream, nothing comes out.
Why I stopped telling people what happened to me
it weaved itself to become who I am today. 95% fear and 5% Iman.