There’s something beautiful,
in all the overwhelming guilt that it chokes you with,
about making acquaintance with your mortality.
Being subdued into relinquishing,
knowing your time is up,
is the softest anger I have known.
Whoever thought you could weep so quietly,
scream so violently,
and not a single person,
would know your woes.
‘Perhaps it will leave me alone’,
you convince yourself,
‘perchance, I will heal’,
optimism is not your forte,
but, this time, it seems far more suited,
not for your own sake,
but because you hate the very idea,
of empathy towards you.
If you’ve wrestled and lost to mortality,
what use is it having someone else fight your fight.
Wesam El dahabi