doroughu

i can't lie.
i really can't lie once i think about it.
but then i can when i need it a lot.

I remember a year ago, on a Sunday. Sundays. Those kinds of days where its the nicest day but you gotta sit down and do what ever last minute school things your miserable teachers had to give you on Friday. On that Sunday i had an essay to write, over due geometry work, a dumb Spanish cross word that was as fat as a quiz grade, a painting that was half done, promised to finish it by Monday morning, and texting friends buzzing at me to come with them in the afternoon. all of these little demands were tugging at the stem of my brain. My legs and arms sprawled upon the carpet, my eyes were stale from staring, and then i heard my fathers foot steps. i knew what they meant. He stomped around the corner, huffing and glaring at me with the same brown eyes he gave to me. Standing over me, i could feel that question. I was getting ready to hit that right beat, jump and dive at that split second. if i didnt get it right, if I studdered, if i let my face do what it wanted.
"You got homework to do?"
And between the pocket of space and air of his question and my answer, i could feel all the stuff inside my shell of skin, my organs, my veins, my bones, my muscles, sucking in to my esophogas tangling inside out, coming together, in the back of my mouth and over filling on top of my tongue, like i was going to throw it all up. A tumor of pressure in the front of my brain, my face wanted to spread, my eyes wanted to widen. I threw the most innocent emotion i could find into the eyes my father gave me, making them pure as honey. my lips barely parted i thought it was all going to pour out, until my weightless tongue tap the fleshy roof of my mouth, my lips barely pucker o, the answer,
"No."
The quivering gore inside my throat was gone. In the sight behind my eyes, I saw all the homework, the painting, the paper full of scribbles and final strokes of the brush.
"Its all finished." I mouthed.
The strings under my fathers face loosened, his eyes went back into his head. "Alright." He waddled away.

Lying is almost the hardest thing to do for me. When i watch another person lie, its as if the akwardness of saying nothing but empty air was a parasite growing on their soul. Some lower their heads and glare with their backs lifted to make them look bigger, "No i didnt. What are you talking about?" Some widen their eyes, brows push up ward together, little lip, "How could you say that? I would never do such a thing." With a voice like little bo peep. They make themselves believe the lie, they imagine it in their mind, in the sight behind their eyes, and decorate their emotions to look as true as possible, make it closest to the true human fuel. But it's just empty air.

When another lies to you, at your face, if they're weak you can tell the emotion they present to you doesn't match the way you've known them. Some keep their eyes tied to yours, some look to the side and you can see the thoughts "keep looking at her, don't be a pussy, she can tell."Some you can just bust through them. With an off beat question they collapse. It takes a sort of strength to lie.You can't be a transparent image, you have to be the thick paper, the pigment, the shapes, you can't be empty air. You have to be able to hold it up. You have to be able to pull it out. You can't be empty air.

باید یلدا جشن بگریم

lets go to a Yalda party!

!برتم مهمونی ی یلذا

this has been a long november

So much love. So many hours. So many "hi"s. Too many emotions have stained this years november. i'm tired. i sleep rather early now. Im still having a hard time at school. Just trying to pull through. These breaks are nice. Like an oasis in some sort of desert. Or a coffee break on late night shifts. but i can't ever get too comfortable. I can never just let myself go on these kinds of breaks. Nope. I'm still thinking about work. I'm still worried about grades. Still picturing school in my head. Still feelin' bad about myself.

I've actually been forgetting to eat. I've never done that before. I went a whole day with out eating two days ago. i just didnt eat. i wasnt busy. i had a few snacks. no body cooked that day. i forgot to eat lunch today. i didnt eat much of break fast either. I find my self really thirsty all the time.
Texting and facebook is getting kind of lame.

I'm trying to get my hair long again. There's this CUNT that sits next to me in ap english. Her hair is so pretty and dark. It smells like Aussie or herbal essences. Its like this weird damp fragrant aura cloud around her hair. i want mine like that. my hair barely touches my shoulders. i remember how long my hair was. it would always float into someones face when they tried eating a sandwhich next to me. everybody liked it. everyone thought it looked better when i cut it last november. But now when i see long hair. It's like the symbol of sexy woman. like long hair = girl. Long dark, fragrant, shiny hair. Something my boyfriend could put his fingers in.
My hair grows rather fast. i'll probably wait a year and a half for it to get to my back. yea. i'll just take care of it till then.

When you invite 30 people to your birthday party...

and only 5 show up,

it makes you wonder what you're gonna do with all that pizza,cake, and soda that your dad bought.
so you go driving at night with your best friend, and throw it all at your old elementary school.
and egg your own school, with 12 straight from the freezers.'


happy birthday me.

this autumn

Time's going by pretty quickly now-a-days. This must be how adults feel when they realize that they're not so young anymore. Time never used to slip out of my fingers like heavy, black, silky hair, it never used to drag me by my own hair either. Now i see hours dissolve in 5 minutes. I turn 17 tomorrow. That number looks bigger than me. Maybe i'm not a real 17 year old. i don't feel like a 16 year old anymore though. 16 looks a little smaller than me, not tiny, but maybe almost my size. Maybe i'm nothing. I'm not any age. Does anybody else ever have this feeling? I feel like im nothing, im not 16 or 17..not even between. Maybe i'll wake up tomorrow and i'll be all different, a growth spurt maybe, more cheek bones, maybe some depression. Are 17 year olds depressed? Or hot? Maybe i'll feel completely different tomorrow, maybe i'll do something different tomorrow. maybe some timed biological happening will happen, like at the exact time that i turn 17 i'm supposed to turn blue or my feet are supposed to get bigger. My hands do look kind of different from a year ago, 5 years ago, 8.

I think i should see a doctor. A psychiatrist. And a regular doctor. I never really recouped from my trip to iran in '08. I never really recouped this time around either.

Around 6 weeks into my trip, i started to realize that i couldnt keep up with everyone that i walked with. This was also true when i would walk with taller friends here in america, but it wasn't that i was short, i was actually out of breath, as if i had ran a mile. The sun was hot, my feet were hot, my body was hot. Too many layers for the arid summer climate of tehran. As i walked and puttered to lurch myself, like a racing horse, to the pace of my cousins or aunts. It was as if i was pushing through a thick substance, even the air was holding me back. The smog, we were walking through this dirt and gray every day. And as i pushed on i could notice i was holding my breath, and i felt the pain in my head from it. A whimper, a grunt, a hesitant inhale, my lips afraid to suck in all this poison. A perspiration, this discharge that was seen so much of. In the morning i would walk out with straightened, clean hair, when you'd touch it it would slide and twinkle, then in the noon i would blow in to my grandmothers home that smelled like death gasping for air. My face and hands felt suffocated, covered with a film, my bangs sticky with this. On the white bowl of a sink, i could see the film in liquid form, a yellow grey color, the carbon, the burned diesel, the dirt, my own fluids. What would they say; All those sweetly dressed gypsies who listen to Sasy Mankan and the soft skinned boys with beards and groomed eye brows who winked at me in the taxi, smiled at me on the street, blowing raspberries at me in the subway, telling the world how immaculate i seem. What would they say if they saw this sewage washing off of my face. In my room i would undress, pulling hot clothes off leaving them on the floor and throwing clean white shirts on. I would tumble on to my bed and feel my muscles, my skin, my arms and legs, my back, everything be pulled down by gravity, a settling pain. My heart, it was beating, gasping, not steady, sputtering, tripping. my head fell to the sight of my cloths, like an elephant tried them on, rolled off and left on the floor to sort of die. i felt like them. i sat up to see my grandmother in the living room, her feet would move inch by inch, and with every soft jerk, her dress would flutter in front of her ankles. she was bent over. she was always bent over. thats what old people do. bend over while walking, like they lost their thoughts on the floor.

مریم خوشال کجاست؟

مریم خوشال کجاست؟ کجا رفت؟ مریم را كه هروقت میخواند، هروقت لبخند کشیده، هرروز یاد میگیر، هرروز نور توی چشماش بود.

where is happy maryam? Where has she gone? The maryam who always was laughing, always smiling, always learning new things, always was light in her eyes.

my lonely pride

This country
This beautiful country
This dirty country
This old country
This dangerous country

It's hard to love this country
When everyone else around me hates it.

It's hard to love this country
When this country bites me back.

With trash in the streets, careless people, angry sweaty people, terrible leaders, injustice, force, a covering over my body, the sun burning my feet.

It's hard to love this country
Because when you're there, you're miserable.

It's hard to love this country
Because if you look, everything's a mess.

The smog layered in the skies, blood in the gutters, a place with no work, a crowded place, hot, tense, the sun pulsing in my eyes.

It's hard to love this country
When it's own people have left without a fight, and they look at me
with that same changed look,
and seemed to have forgotten what they are.

It's hard to love this country
When it threatens mine and everyone else with missiles.

I cry to the music of Sonati, I cry to the familiar sound of Farsi, i cry for the ever-tightening strings of my heart.
where is the music? where is the art?
where is the laughter? where is the tea and ghalyun?

It's hard to love this country,
The people i love are there,
The things i love are there,
The life i love is there,


My heart has been left there,


And i remain alone, with pride of this country.

I am alone with this,
dangerous,
old,
dirty,
beautiful,


country.


my iran.