Like two airplanes moving past one another, May and Amy moved past each other too. The only difference was that skins touched, without letting anything crumble, making sure no one had died on board. Everyone reached their destinations, but there’s one person that stayed plastered in their seat. She’s me and I was her, and I touched her hand softly, left her with a smile, and wished her a safe flight back. 

If I could call myself weary, is it safe to say that I left what’s left of me of porcelain back home? Because I did and I am pretty sure it exploded when I landed because I was hysterically but silently crying the tears of closure. And I know quite well they will never find me and they will never stain my pages anymore.

I just can’t feel it yet, but I have been super motivated to write and wage a war between the characters I created a year back. Everything happened so quietly and so suddenly that I am still trying to step out of the haze, the beautiful kind of haze since it’s destined to happen. I was destined to be here at this exact timing. The angels have heard my cries and pulled me from my tragedy. I was shamefully tragic back there. I had spent almost all my “self-discovery journey” picking up the aftermaths of people’s melancholies. You know, an unfinished assignment and whatnot. For example, within one text message, my body would betray me, my hands would activate writing mode for someone else, where I would polish an essay or a piece of writing, and they would walk past me, thanking the ghost writer instead of me.  I don’t think I’ll ever have the urge to say, “I get on a plane to get away from your bullshit, I don’t think I can help you anymore because I need to breathe and I can’t ask you for help because I don’t wanna be a bother. I’m sorry but I don’t have to be apologetic all the time and that doesn’t make me one less of a kind human.”

I have been dreaming of red lights and blue faces, suits and jars of honey, empty coffee shops and running through crowded streets then going to dance to new music in crash range party, hand kisses then going to wash them immediately in some stranger’s bathroom because you don’t want their molecules gripping unto your skin anymore.

I look back and think that I’m still clinging to gratitude after being tested numerous times and failing. I heart-wrenchingly hope I made my thirteen-year-old self proud, if not, happy? I wish my friends back there would read these diaries because I want to prove to them and to myself that I have never been just a shadow or a hopeless dreamer or a sinner or an essay writing machine or a punching bag or an over-thinker or someone who never made sense. I miss you, though.

I stirred my coffee with a fork but that’s not important. Maybe it is the little things like stirring your coffee with a fork or trying to speak up that don’t make any sense to this world, right?

I don’t wanna talk about it and I’ll never come across it as I write, I just can’t. Sometimes, I forget rage and fury are humane, that we can actually have access to feel them, that they’re allowed to be felt. It’s not safe to say that I have been sculpted by a reluctant sculptor who aims for perfection but it has taken him a while to realize that he will never reach perfection with me. And this has resulted in me fleeing my head with a baseball bat and making it fly across the room, ouch! Imagine having your head fly across the room whenever things don’t go as planned. I can’t believe the people who know nothing about me claim to know everything and make it seem like some sweet breeze, a gust in the wind, like the sentiments I devour are invisible until my eyes shoot laser beams, they wouldn’t flinch, despite how perilous it can be. 

Moderation. Moderation. Moderation. I don’t know what it is, I either go above and beyond with exaggeration or stand in the midst of doing nothing. I either eat non-stop for a whole day or go three days without chewing, I either write thirteen pages or thirteen words and sometimes I wouldn’t write a thing. I either show dangerous calm or horrifying aggression. I have never handled situations perfectly, always ended up a loser, weapon-less and shameful. If I were walking on a rope I know I would fall and break my bones.

I hope he, my father, looks away, my skin is wearing off. My brain froze, their voices are all over it, even the most disgusting ones. I want their breaths off me, but I love them so much even if they never get me. My notebooks are almost full and it has been nine days only. It feels like I have been here for months now, it’s like I’ve been pinpointed in this exact spot with the help of angels, like a dream. I cannot rewind anything but all I could do was look back at the blurry image of me dancing in my brother’s room while doing my makeup because his room has a mirror and mine doesn’t, and I went to see them whilst burning inside because I was leaving them behind.

There are a lot of signs which have appeared horrifyingly ever since I’ve been here. I’m confused, how did they make their way down to my dreams? Why now? Why when I’m at the farthest part of the globe? I woke up later than usual today, reheated the rest of my coffee, and drank it in one gulp and it felt like a slap across the face. I honestly want nothing from them anymore, all I am is a ghost, a gravity-centered ghost who is broken and damaged and hurt. The intensity of the emotions I feel in my dreams is brutal. It’s hysterical, it’s painful and choking. I’ll never forget these dreams where I was screaming like a lioness, with teary eyes and a trembling lip. As if it were high school all over again. 

Like Alice In Wonderland, except that I am a nameless tragedy in Snowland. I am nowhere near perfect but I’m a beautiful mess. If I am a nameless tragedy, what would my pretty name be? 

When my soul escapes my body, it calls me to follow but I never do. I get chills and whispers like “drop everything and run,” and I stick my feet into the ground like I’ve been living like that for years ( I was).

I love it when someone tells me “I’ll call you back as soon as possible,” and the hotline goes dead. I chew on it because it gets lonelier each time. As if the phone call never existed or the person on the other line was just an echo of mine but in a different voice. And when it gets cold sometimes, I wait for someone to join a bed that’s not mine, even if it’ll get a little colder, even if it were just a silhouette. 

However, it’s dangerously safe to say that I am happy in an element of researching about crime and murder and writing on the walls. This is the woman I love, May, because May knits her wings back after rising from hell and kisses Amy’s head, making sure she’s safe and protected.

By May Chreideh

May Chreideh is a writer, content creator and lover of criminal justice and conspiracy. May writes novels, poems, scripts, etc. She’s running her blog “Moonlight x Fire, May” and podcast “& Then Some” on the side.

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