Notes I Won’t Reread

I don’t know what to call it except a sickness with no cure, misery sinks into my skull and thoughts, even if im pretending to be a joyful human, misery follows me in the shadows and nights, like an empty cup of tea as you try to get it full. Still, laziness has stifled your thoughts, sitting between these faces, trying to mesmerize this misery into every one of them; what do you call it? , Misery is the taste that sticks to the back of my throat when I wake up. It’s the sound of my own laugh. I count cracks on the ceiling because they don’t lie to me. The ceiling doesn’t ask if I’m okay. The ceiling doesn’t care. Misery lives in the quiet corners of the house where no light fits. People say misery loves company. That’s wrong. Misery doesn’t love anything. It eats. It swallows. It gnaws. The company just makes the chewing louder.

Misery smells like wet metal. It sits on my tongue even when I haven’t touched blood in days. I think it clings to me, like smoke to old clothes,I can laugh while drowning in it. The laugh comes out sharp, too loud, and I don’t know if I’m laughing at the world or if the world is laughing at me. Maybe both. perhaps misery runs into my veins, crawls into my system as i think it’s my only way out of this world, but it’s just some sufferness. a way of the world to tell me that im still here, alive. awake. into this world that has named me a curse, I talk to myself more than I talk to anyone. I know what my voice sounds like when it cracks, when it whispers, when it pretends to be calm. That’s misery when even your own words lie to you.

I am both the butcher and the meat, both the father and the child. Misery is wearing both masks until you forget which one is your real face.I don’t want to write a conclusion. Misery doesn’t end, so why should I?

-Ahmed