Spiders in my head,

busy building webs that spread,

fill me up when I am lying in my bed,

feeling empty.

They pull me up when the bottom takes the lead,

and push me down to the ground to bleed,

when everything I belong to is dead.

Too many spiders mess with my head.

They are busy making me busy.

Busy thinking and overthinking.

Busy hoping and overhoping.

Busy coloring the horizon in black or white

since the rainbow was never a friend.

Busy creating a super happy end,

or a tragic one that breaks one’s heart.

Because I have never known the shades of grey,

the in-betweens, or even the words: middle, balance, and half.

On myself, I am tough.

I am extreme.

I’m extremely extreme.

When I am happy,

I open my arms wide to hug every letter of that word.

I smile, and I see butterflies all over the world.

I jump, laugh, and never stop talking.

On the road to happiness, I keep walking and walking.

I take it as my home, my sky, and my ocean,

where I would love to be eternally sinking.

And I have never tried to save myself.

When I am sad or had a day that I call bad,

I dive deep into sorrow

because I have never believed in the sun of tomorrow.

I dig deep and hard

in every black hole I once had.

Like angry dogs, they’re very mad.

I let them eat me one more time,

or a million times.

I call out all my ugly monsters,

my unfixed troubles and disasters,

to the weeping party that I host.

Where the massacre begins

for my eyes, my heart, and my soul.

I will condemn my bright ideas,

and I will eventually grieve for them,

Oh, dear me! I’m both the assailant and the victim.

Oumaima Barhoud