Scribe your soul out

i can’t ማባበል people when they cry, me is sensitive asf will join you with more watery eyes.

i now truly understand hate, people who randomly just disappear.

good morning babes😭

i am not god, i cannot create but i can shape a newer version, can’t i? one small morning, remade. in it, i wake early. there is no invisible weight pressing me back into myself, no quiet force pulling me inward. i lie there and let the light spill in from outside, watch it land on the wall moving slightly as if it’s alive i give it a point to reach,as an alarm for me to jump up. i stare longer than necessary. long enough for nothing to rush me. then i jump nothing is gnawing at me from the inside. i wash, i move, i make breakfast. no words leave me. none are needed. my eyes don’t drop, don’t search for the ground as if it could hold me better than i hold myself. *i don’t have to utter a word or run from the eyes. i sit, i eat, i watch something i love, and the moment doesn’t ask anything back from me. *still, i do not speak. still, i do not look down. the dishes wait, and i meet them a piano hums from my phone,water slips over my hands, and when i look down, the light has followed me there too, caught in the thin rivers running across my skin. outside,i step into it. birds stitch sound into the air above me, settling into the trees as if they belong exactly where they are. the sun leans into my skin, the piano is still playing somewhere behind me, or maybe inside me now, and the birds are joining me with their own kind of rhythm. *and still no words. no downward glance, at any eyes. no quiet thing inside me trying to consume what little peace i have, no questions asked, no watery eyes. if i were god, this would be the morning i would create. Mehhh

I need self control. Goddd

there's this unexplainable weight that comes with Sunday, like it's a built-in feature of the day, where simply living through it means i am subjected to feel heavy. maybe it's just me. maybe it's because i hate Sunday. the memories tied to this day leave me nauseous from morning to night. they tell me, yes kidus, you're going to remember everything, and you're going to relive it all in your head. i turned into this regressing wild animal in a sanctuary, like i was face to face with my old poachers. i regress back to Sunday-kidus. now i'm a different animal. i hate the idea of humans trying to feed me and cuddle me with affection and love. i am that hunted and poached animal, back in the wild. sundays are the days when i'm reminded of my own uncivility when i saw everything through a b/w lens. so i stay glued to my bed, a projection of those days playing on repeat, those hot dry days when heavy words were thrown like stones. and they hit everyone, everything. the mental bruises are still fresh, and they renew themselves with every coming Sunday. i sleep the whole day, as if i can escape them. i excuse myself with a six-hour "nap." but then i wake up, and it's still Sunday. still today. tomorrow feels like it's about to cancel on me, leaving me to relive this day over and over. twenty four hours feel like a purgatory i'm trapped in. as if God and the devil are arguing because neither can claim me, or wants to. i haven't sinned enough for hell, nor been saintly enough to see the pearly gates. so what do they do? they keep me in this purgatory they call Sunday.

Rain 123…… here goes mebrat😭

ጃዬን😭😁

chipiko✨

i will always love night walks.

zenabu ketket adergogn God didn’t want to ruin my day, so he made sure i got home safe. had a lovely day hope my energy translate back to yall enkuuuuu take ittttt🫴🫴🫴

my lovely friend btw just saying😌

It stood naked like a bare tree whose leaves wandered with the wind for the season. Some to lay lifeless at it’s foot, some to float far away from it and some to be crushed under the boots of life in a foreign land. Ironically, the actual trees were in full bloom. The sides of the streets were filled with purple, red and pink flowers adorned with their vivid green leaves. They all stood in striking contrast to the atmosphere around them, as if saying “Dear Mekelle, your spring will come too and it’ll bring all your children back to your arms”. Until then, the city is forced to endure and seek comforts in the long winter season.

the only thing i can quote, is her own words, “We became desensitized to death news.”

me: they don’t look like humans. -: its your eyes blen.