21st Century Cliché


Everytime I watched her write, it was like my mind kept imagining the paper taint with blood which poured from her wrists. There always seems to be, has to be some sort of hurt; I couldn’t seem to imagine her in a different setting. I could picture her so much, in so many different conscious ways, but my mind redirects to this vignette of bleeding rapture.
Her lips drooped, stoned in a day-dream; fingers possessed by her demons. Tired and restless eyes, green and intense. 
It’s been so many years and I wish I could love her all over again, but it’s hard to imagine anyone other than the girl from the past who couldn’t seem to leave my side. 
And it’s hard to imagine a world where he could walk up to me the way he did back then – my hips adjusting into his hands with the soft look in his eyes. He would totally freak out if he knew I was writing about him while he sat right there as I tried to ignore the living hell out of him as much as I could; how his image is still alive in my mind and my thoughts. No-one could know about this. This is weakness. This is pain. And pain is weakness, and I am responsible enough to endure it. I get to choose who sees.
My brain never fails to toy with my vision – the water, I see; I hope turns into wine. Sadly, no drink could ever make me drunk enough to get this off my nerves.
Sometimes I hope you love me out of pity so I could learn to take you for granted and possibly hate your guts, and possibly run away like the volatile mess I am. I think this’s been going on for a bit too long. Time to suck it up.
Hope is a fleeting spark. Completely irrational. The hopes, I pray they leave me. But praying will not save me. Not this time.
“This road will end at some point…” I say, in a low voice, as voices echo in the night.
We walked in pitch-black darkness, in silence. It’s always been some sort of comfortable silence between us.
“Everything ends at some point. But, it’ll only end when you want it to end. In this world, few are the things within your control and limits,” he says.
“Let’s keep walking.”
Mona Issa

And The Walls Saw Everything


“Waiting you. Lower gate,” the text read. A few words which led to a weird night.
Jade wore a black dress and a good amount of gold on her neck. Dark lipstick, no purse, no fear. She walked the street like she owned it, remembering, recalling and walking through the nostalgia of a fantasy, except that it wasn’t a fantasy, but a true one-time reality. Footsteps echo in her head, as she contemplated  how at one time, she was torn between the man of her dreams and the guy she was with. It’s like he was still next to her. Walking the street.
She reaches the gate and waits.
The reverie of thought stops when Lena finally comes along. Her hair up-tied into a long mane of dark chocolate. She wore an Adidas outfit skin-tight, which highlighted her perfect curves and, not to mention, her colossal behind. Best friends were prone to notice.
“Babe, what’s the matter?” Jade asks.
“I feel like shit. Need to go to ER. Do you mind?”
A silent pause.
“I’m so sorry I’m ruining your night,” Lena croons.
“It’s not okay,” Jade chuckles. “But it’s totally okay.”
She’s her best friend. She’ll go anywhere with her, dolled up or pajama’d down.
We walk into the waiting room, my hands in my pockets, Lena’s face white in pale as we take a seat. Oxygen and other cable ports in the wall. I wonder what all these chemicals are for.
The doctor calls us in and we make it into the emergency admit, room E3. She lays down on the bed and I sit by the bedside, looking around. I learnt not think with emotion so long ago, and although I think I do love Lena deep down, I try to distract my emotional self with questions like, “do i need to be here?”
Those are pretty selfish thoughts, frankly speaking. But at the same time, they seem relevant. I hated hospitals. Every bit of them. I’m needle-phobic. I hate blood. I hate prickly things. Sterile settings freak me out. I cringe.
“I want to take a picture of you. You look so pretty,” Lena tells me.
I’m not sure if she actually meant it, or if she’s compromising for making me get out of my dorm at 10 pm to sit with her in the hospital. But at the same time, I think I would be really upset if she hadn’t done the same for me. In fact, it hurts thinking of myself alone in a hospital. I’m barely 20, not 85. I should have a whole army of mates around me. But, reality begs to differ. I don’t have many friends. I choose who I want around me to a point of self-hate. 
I gush at the compliment anyway, being the socially anxious mess I am – a girl who couldn’t take compliments for shit. Heck, I’ve known Lena for four years, already. But then again, that doesn’t count because I blush when my own mother compliments me. I am so lame. 
“Not here though…” I look around and laugh at the scene. We’re at the damn ER and it’s almost midnight. I stare at Lena, wondering what’s next. She could barely talk. She had a migraine. We start laughing. There wasn’t a joke, but we just started laughing silly. It was almost hysterical.
“We’ve been through everything together, Jade. You’re a true friend,” she says.
And the tears came flowing down inevitably. I don’t think anyone would understand why, because I barely understand why. I don’t think people would understand me if I tell them, “Being loved is a hard thing to be.”
Your family wouldn’t understand, neither your close friends or your partner in life. They’ll explain to you: you are lovable.
And indeed, you are. And you are worth it all. No exceptions.
But I can’t seem to see that. The very act of crying, to me, was disastrous. God forbid anyone see me cry. Love is a weakness I can never bear the burden of. Tears are not weakness, but people will ask why and every reason will become one. I could never free myself enough.
Mona Issa


10482320_694240453959217_281257972144893821_oThe remains of myself aren’t exactly remains, but postcards of memoirs to bury deep in this graveyard called my heart.
Tears ran down my face and I lost the will to live; rock bottom welcomed me and melancholy kissed me, told me that life isn’t all fine poetry and drizzled petrichor, but a shout in a deep void of an empty heaven called life.
Life – will there be anything else?
How I borne and I bury; find the will to thrive then slash its thin-iced throat.
Happiness has been taken from me and enliven in somebody else.
Whoever you are, I hope you taste the sweetness of kind words from a stranger.
I hope you feel engulfed by the loud laughter of my close friends.
I hope you fall into the mesmerizing depth of my lover’s eyes.
I hope you catch bewildering moments and grasp gritty details, smile when you look back and return to me as you’ve formed new caskets of memories to bury into my soul.
Maybe death isn’t a sad ending.

What We Love Most, We Fear –


She was desperate to talk to someone. Somebody, anyone.

She made her way across the crowd, unfamiliar faces met with her one second at a time.
To her, it was overwhelming. All these faces which she’d never seen before; she wonders where they’ve been, what their intentions were and what direction they were heading in their lives. She wonders if they’d ever felt what she felt.

To dive into the unknown, by human nature, is what we fear most. We dread it, even obviate it.
We, humans, have forgotten the true meaning of bravery, compassion, dedication and adventure. Only when the humans explore the purest of their emotions and the sincerest of their desires will they know the true meaning of bravery, compassion, dedication and adventure.

She saw someone. A stranger.

A beautiful stranger.

He caught her eye in the most lethal ways.

And this time, it was amazing.
It was beautiful.
It was intoxicating.

She was not afraid anymore.

And then she knew why.

Daughter’s Silence

Daddy held her face and tried to read into her eyes.
Could he recognize his own daughter anymore? Does he know her?
Hazel stare into his, and flashbacks flicker through time as it passes mercilessly
Cascades of pain, heartbreak, loss and longing borne from within spring to surface.
Daddy’s at loss and confusion.
Has it only been two months? A year? Maybe seven years?
He was dire to ask her if she was alright – yet he knew she was everything but alright.
He was desperate to ask her why she was so silent
but then silence was the only language she could speak.