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There were holes in my underwear. I could relate to it so I never liked buying new ones.
Back then I could relate to just about any broken thing, a stick in the jaws of a strong dog, a vase... urgghhh the sound of breaking glass makes me cry. It always has, it's like an automatic response, tears just start crawling down me.
Sometimes I would break things on purpose just to make me cry, that's why you will find in my old home a cabinet full of glasses with no match. The few that didn't break.
I find it hard to break on my own. A hug and I can cry to fill a river but when I'm alone, I don't cry. When I was a child I had to learn how to cry. I never internalised it. Screaming, that came naturally. Punching a wall, that hurt a little bit.
Crawling, I did that a lot, I would crawl through my anger until the feeling of hopelessness and guilt and something more earthly and immediate mixed with it, went away. The feeling would go and the stinging would come pouring upwards from my fingertips all the way to my chest this heat. I would look down at my fingertips and suck on them as if that would make it feel better. I would reluctantly show my grandma the damage done this time and awe at her calmness, her perfectly acceptable attitude at everything, my nails bleeding from the tightness of my fists.
People like this exist I must have thought, the ones that do not struggle to understand their inner feelings. She didn't struggle too much to understand mine either. I'm also good at understanding other people, it's me I've failed at most of my life.
How can one understand the quietest and most polite little girl turning into a self loathing, angry thing, within the fraction of a second. There was unimaginable energy inside me. I couldn't stop it.

My new flat is impeccable. I cannot sleep unless all the dishes are washed and everything is folded neatly into place. I clean relentlessly. The only holes in my clothes are in those ripped jeans I bought a few months ago. I have matching plates and mugs and cocktail glasses. I haven't broken a thing in a few years. I can't cry on my own. I rather lay down, and calmly think. There is an unimaginable energy inside me. And when it feels like my heart wants to crawl out of my chest and scream, I open my laptop and I type things. Usually I end up typing an article or essay I have to hand in the next week. Sometimes I write some bizarre blog-posts and I make them public. I don't think my writing is anything special but there's something inside me that needs to come out, there's an honesty inside me, which I have struggled with for years. Secrets, everything inside 'these' walls, I was taught should be kept a secret. I decided not.
I'm not a quiet polite girl with frilly dresses anymore, I'm not the angry self loathing thing anymore. I spoke. I allowed them to meet each other, and they embraced and found a common language.
Now I'm just a workaholic with a need for order and cleanliness. Mostly, you would awe at my calmness, my perfectly acceptable attitude at everything.


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Between pages

Between the pages number seven and nine, snug between familiar names is mine.
I have a page.
A page that feels velvety underneath my fingers that flutter like butterflies looking for nectar.
A page,
milk coloured between number seven and nine, each laced in black.
I was number 27 but most others did not find much hope in writing.
So I became,
the white page between number seven and nine, each laced in black.
I repeat myself.
Number seven and nine, each laced in black.
I repeat myself.
Number seven and nine...

My fingers looking for nectar, tracing invisible velvet lines. The nectar of days past
when I was just a page between...
For us who did find hope cuddled up between numbers and pages life had other things in mind.
I mean,
there's not really that much hope anymore
for numbers seven and nine.

In response to F.

There's wounds inside my head, stamped deep into the grey folds of my brain. Love cannot heal me.

Detached, distrusting, disillusioned, we are reduced. Perfect bodies that will rot like everything else, we are, just empty images of ourselves. You call it love, but it's just sex.

I heard love scream through the night. I heard it claim innocence in the morning because "love is a fire that cannot be contained." You wouldn't be justifying it, if we just called it sex. These bruises fading on loves skin can never fade in the flow of my veins.

I have felt love touch my skin and kiss the nape of my neck with such gentle and wanting hands. Just sex.
I do not believe love will ever lick my wounds clean and hold my hand tight enough that I will not be able to leave.

I do not believe love can wrap me in good thoughts and rays of sunshine bright enough to grow summer flowers.
I have seen love...

Love settled.
In a small town surrounded by everything love in her youth tried t…

My grandmother, Aphrodite

We would dance in the kitchen, wrapped up in the smell of boiled vine leafs. My grandmother and I.
We would start the days arguing. "Sadik, - she would say, at seven in the morning, - the world has not seen such spoiling of a child. Let her be cold. Let her dress herself for heaven's sake."
And so we would go on for years. Two heads of wavy chestnut hair and dark round eyes, always in conflict. Two stubborn heads, fiery heads, proud heads.
We would dance around the kitchen. Me, my grandma, my mum and my aunt, each taking turns to waltz around the house with my granddad.
My grandmother, was not like all the other grandmothers, soft and sweet and naive. She reminded me of the two headed eagle stamped vividly on the red flag of our country. Strong, eyes piercing the life of me. I could, I cannot lie to my grandma.
One look and I am undone, solved like the most simple puzzle. Her dark eyes, pierce the life of me.
Her dark eyes seemed to skip the fact that I had a face and ev…