Self-Hatred and the

Mirror
​Every time I look in the mirror, I don't see a person; I see a mistake that somehow learned how to breathe. It’s an exhausting, relentless war waged inside my own mind, where I am simultaneously the torturer and the victim. People talk about self-love as if it’s a switch you can just flip, but they don't understand the heavy, suffocating architecture of self-hatred. It isn’t a fleeting mood; it’s a permanent shadow carved into the bone. I despise the way I think, the way I react, the way my mind sabotages every quiet moment before it even has a chance to settle.
​If my soul were carved into stone, it would not be a monument of grace or triumph. It would be a jagged, fractured statue—brutally chiseled by my own hands out of regret, failure, and disgust. The surface would be scarred with every word I wish I never said, every failure I couldn't outrun, and every moment I let myself down. The hands of this statue would be broken, unable to hold onto peace, and its eyes would be hollow, staring blindly at a future it never wanted to witness. It wouldn't stand tall; it would be kneeling, weighed down by the sheer gravity of its own existence, wearing its flaws like heavy chains.
​There is no comfort in this realization, and I’m not looking for a way out or a soft platitude to fix it. Some days, hatred is the only honest thing I have left. It’s a bitter anchor keeping me tied to reality in a world where everything else feels fake. I don't want to forgive myself, and I don't want anyone to tell me it gets better. I just want to sit here in the dark with this wreckage, looking at the monument of who I am, and letting the silence swallow the rest.

حتى الأحلامُ يا أمي، باتت توقظُ معها الجراح

حاولتُ الهرب، وأن أخدعَ نفسي بشيءٍ من الوهم الذي يُسمّى أملًا، لكنني أخفقتُ!
لا زال كلُّ شيءٍ يزداد قسوة، حتى هذه الكلماتُ التي أكتبها.
أدركتُ حقًا كم آذيتُ نفسي، وكم كان يستحيلُ أن تتغيّر تلك النهايات!
من أين لي يا أمي بالقليل من الطمأنينة، لأنجوَ بها من ذلك الإرهاقِ المُخلِص لصاحبه؟
من أين لي بالقليل من الأمان، لأعبرَ به إلى الضفةِ الأخرى؟
أنا مُتعبٌ يا أمي، وتعبي هذا يكمنُ بداخلي، لا في تلك الأيامِ الثقيلة كما كنتُ أظن.