I choose pen over blade.

Urwa Noor, Writer, Melancholic

[wordsbyurwa]

Some words by me @wordsbyurwa

[wordsbyurwa]

I am so miserable at twenty. I buried my dreams deep down in my heart and picked up the salt—I add it to my wounds skeptically, measuring how much pain it will cause. At twenty, I no longer want to be seven, the way I wanted to at eighteen. I lost myself at the terribly ripe age of twenty; my dreams are evaporating in front of me, and I have no courage left in me even to get out of bed. I am so devastatingly old at an age so fragile. God, dear God, living feels like a chain pierced inside my throat.

Urwa Noor

[wordsbyurwa]

You are rotted by your dreams, dearest. A graveyard of forgotten prayers. You dreamt—like a madman—of freedom, of everything. But why did you stop beside a path you were never meant to stay on? You have ruined yourself, dearest. You did it all, and you have no witness to your ruin.

Urwa Noor

[wordsbyurwa]

Look at you—you were not that miserable a year or two ago. You were so full of life. Remember how your eyes used to shine when you saw your favorite journal? When did you use to have fun with friends? How you used to love everything, every hobby. Do you remember that numbness wasn't an option back then? You were courageous, bold, and delightfully wild before. You were you—not their opinions. You forgot. You forgot it all. Where did all the fun of life go, dearest? Did the journey make you bitter? Did you stop being who you were and start becoming what you never wanted to be?

—Urwa Noor

[wordsbyurwa]

can you please stop using the © it ruins every post

Why?? It's a way to protect my art. Why does that bother you? It's your problem not mine!

[wordsbyurwa]

I haven't unclenched my jaw in so long; my shoulders are stretched so tight, my body begs me to feed it properly, and the book on my bookshelf keeps staring at me. When did I start to rot? When did I grow so old that I started hiding my problems from Mother? Perhaps it's the price I paid for growing up—I never got to live my childhood twice, I never got to live in the first place. I was too good to be called a miracle; now I'm too tired to be called a 'good kid.' When did I become the nothing I was so afraid to become?

© Urwa Noor

[wordsbyurwa]

My mother cannot sleep until her children come home. How do I tell my mama that home is the only place I run away from? How do I come back to the place that left me with nothing—not even myself?

© Urwa Noor

[wordsbyurwa]

Please swim in the ocean, save me, I'm drowning. Where to find my way out when salt and water are filling my lungs? I feel something home-like warm flowing through my nose—in the form of blood. Please, where are you? Where are you? Where... are... you...?

© Urwa Noor

All rights reserved ©

[wordsbyurwa]

I preach violence when it comes to everything I love, but for you—i wish otherwise.

© Urwa Noor

[wordsbyurwa]

You cannot decide who I was, who I am, and what I will be. You simply can't; because the pen is mine, but it would be a great injustice to define the indefinable.

© Urwa Noor

[wordsbyurwa]

If someone had offered me a hug, I would’ve cried enough to fill oceans with my grief. But no one did, so I kept the tide behind my gritted teeth and walked away.

From Desires, Longings, Madness by ©Urwa Noor

[wordsbyurwa]

I lived life like an unfinished sentence, always waiting for others to complete it.

From Desires, Longings, Madness by ©Urwa Noor

[wordsbyurwa]

I have an ocean inside me but can't even describe a wave.

From Desires, Longings, Madness by ©Urwa Noor

[wordsbyurwa]

My worst mistake was mistaking the horrible silence inside me for peace.

From Desires, Longings, Madness by ©Urwa Noor

[wordsbyurwa]

Walking on eggshells constantly is called life? Ironic.

From Desires, Longings, Madness by ©Urwa Noor

[wordsbyurwa]

The ugliest thing someone can do is mock someone else's pain so terribly that they stop asking for help. How cruel it is to take away someone's ability to trust.

© Urwa Noor

[wordsbyurwa]

I was raised walking on eggshells—from fragile womb to fragile eggshells. My mom said, “Walk carefully on them; if you break them, you won't be my daughter anymore.” My father said, “Carry all these burdens with grace, the way I carried you on my shoulders.” My sister said, “I'll walk on these eggshells with you to break free, both of us.” The floor of eggshells is limited only to the daughters of my home. But eggshells are fragile, they're meant to be broken the way i broke out from the fragile womb.

© Urwa Noor