𝙵𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝟸𝟶, 𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟸
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺-𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟹

I still hear the names I’ve been called.
Their laughter still rings in my ears when I said “I don’t know what’s wrong with me but my insides hurt”

I’m protective of my dreams. Once, sharing who I want to be tomorrow brought painful days I never want to think of.
I’ve been told I’d never make it as the things I dreamt of becoming.

It’s uncomfortable when I feel eyes raking over me, I’m reminded of the whispers behind my back and the disgusted orbs I used to be greeted with.

Physical contact is a no. I try my very best not to offend arms eager to hold me but a mere brush of a skin against mine sends the whole of my body through a tremor and every inch of me is reminded of the touches I begged to run from.

I prefer listening because my words were never acknowledged. It’s a strange feeling, being heard.

Neither of these are poetic, nor are they beautiful. But I think my heart is learning to be grateful for both the rose and the thorns.

‍Who won you, my beautiful loss?

“What Does Yellow Look Like?”

When we were a bit younger, you asked me, “What does yellow look like?” And I went, “It looks like an adey abeba.” And after a heavy sigh, you continued, “What does an adey look like?” Without missing a beat I replied, “It’s like a sunflower, but smaller…” And as I was finishing that statement, I realized what was going on.

I am now sitting at my desk. And as I surrendered to nostalgia and was reminiscing that moment, something went through my mind: “My dear! You were so damn patient with me as a kid.” Actually, no. That wasn’t what originally went through my mind. It was a thought that is driving me to write this… to knit few words together and maybe try once more to describe what yellow looks like.

Yellow feels like listening to the genuine and pure laughter of a baby. It feels like holding the warm hand of your beloved when you feel cold as ice. It feels like sweet honey on your tongue. It feels like that skip in your heart when you think about spending a jolly time with your friends. Yellow sounds like Pharell’s “Happy”.

I reckon you want to know how the other colours (make me) feel…

Red awakens the “passionate” in me out of the blue. It feels like that sudden heartbeat when you listen to that loud, strong beat on maximum out of nowhere. It feels like fight or flight. Red feels like being kissed on your neck and smells like Versace. Red feels like bravery, passion and vulnerability all at once. And weirdly, it somehow pops in my mind when I think of numbers that end with three as well.

Putting aside the fact that it’s the international symbol of sadness, blue feels calm and divine. It feels cold yet warm. It feels as though it has everything under control. It feels weirdly transparent. It’s as serene as serenity could ever be.

Green feels like the thought of your mother. It feels like being assured of having a provider. It smells like the streets after the rain washed over them. It feels like a cold day of kiremt. It sounds like winds blowing between leaves. And as much as it represents nature well, green sounds like the bleep-bloop of a computer as well.

Now, orange. Orange feels like drinking warm milk on a cold day. It feels like walking on dry leaves. It feels like the warmth in your heart when you put your head on that special someone’s shoulder, witnessing a lovely dusk.

Brown… I have a sweet spot for the colour brown and all of its shades. Though I claim to have no favourite colours, I really can get a bit biased when it is about brown. It triggers that part of my brain that loves staying late at libraries… that part that loves staying up watching something nerdy and academic. Brown feels like a Harry Potter book. It tastes like that iced coffee at that cafe you love. It smells like a dusty gazette. It’s like the colour of the flag of “cosiness”. It stands for the expression of comfort in my dictionary.

And finally grey. Grey reminds me I can be still in whatever chaos I am in. It reminds me I needn’t have everything figured out just yet. Grey is like that friend you can talk to at any time and can be sure that you are understood. It sounds like a light white noise. And strangely, it’s what comes to my mind when I think of Dior.

Dear old friend wherever you are, hope this finds you well and sound. I’ll wrap this up with few sentences thanking you for not being of the “easily-offended”, thanking you for being open to things beyond your sensing capacity, and most importantly, thanking you for being a good friend that helps me think and look at things differently.

All my love, dearie.

Check out this writer's works,so beautifully written!🖤

And all my love won't be enough.

if never you find what you’re looking for, come on back to the front porch. say my name through the screen door and i’ll be waiting. whatever you’ve done, it doesn’t matter cause darling we’re all a little splintered and battered. so what the light is on, what are you waiting for? come on back to the front porch.

I just stared at my mom while she was talking to me with Teary eyes and I wanted so much to be vulnerable and tell her I am sick. " I am getting bad mom I know will make it but I fear I might not. And I feel am tricking myself into getting better. But I don't think I am. I feel it all working out in my head once but I cannot seem to not breathe that breath of exhaustion. I fear I am bottling it up thinking I am dealing with it and it is gonna explode on me one day."


But I didn't. I couldn't. I don't know which to curse. This world for making me think I have to be silent to feel strong and like I have my shit together or myself for believing in it. I don't know. I seem to be torn with choices this days. But what have I made myself believe to be that I cannot even trust the same body that nurtured me to life.

“I think about giving up a lot, to just stop trying.”

“Surrender and losing control isn’t always as bad as they tell you it is, why don’t you then? Give up I mean”

“Then what? What happens without the constant tension to do better? Or the hard work? Without the sweating blood and palpitations?”

“Perhaps you get to wind down? And breathe?”

“But I see that as giving liberty to my repressed self, which is a rampant route I’m not willing to take. So I won’t give up, not because I have this drive to become someone but because the idea of nothingness is daunting.”

By Dagmawi Demeke