It's funny how you judge me for 'beating myself up'. It's funny how you judge me for getting emotional about something that happened 1400 years ago. Funny, really, how you judge me for believing in something with such a passion.

Have you ever heard a noha? Been to a majlis? Opened your Islamiat book and read what happened at Karbala?

I judge you for your ignorance.

You hide your vanity behind a mask of insecurity.

Foolish girl. Why won't you let them help? Why are you so intent on your own ways? Why has this stubbornness become so intrinsic to your being? Don't you know you can't do it alone? You're just not capable. Better people than you have failed. No, dying is not an option. Giving in is.

Maybe you were right, maybe I should have listened when you said it was okay to run away. Maybe I underestimated your insight, maybe I overestimated the world.

All I know is that sometimes it's okay to kill yourself, because the world isn't worth living. Maybe it's okay to murder your children if only to keep them away from living in here, in today. Maybe it's okay to commit mass genocide, because you're only trying to save them from themselves, from the creatures they're bound to become.

Maybe I should finally take that step. Not just run away from a world so disgusting, but eliminate myself completely.

All I know is I don't want this anymore. None of this.




It hurts when you talk like this. But even more than that, it infuriates.

I love how you take your anger out on me. It makes it even better when I break your heart.

You asked me why I'm so negative about new friendships. Why I'm always planning demises, deaths, fall aparts. You asked me the reason for my bitterness. You asked me to stop. You asked me to shut up, stop talking. Stop spreading the hate, infiltrating your mind, planting seeds of doubt, nay, rows and rows of doubt in there. You asked me why I still kept making friends, why my cynical self still saw the world as 'worthy of attention and approval'. You asked and you asked.

In my head, I've killed you five times over. In the recesses of my mind, I have attended your funeral. My brain tells me I'm an orphan. My soul puts flowers on your grave each morning.

In my head, is where I'm happiest.