A Collection of Poems, by Mariam Altuhaimer

When I’m reading books, in every character I see myself. I guess that’s what books are supposed to do, make you feel like they’re real and that you’re a part of it all. But sometimes in the middle of words and lines, I see you. I imagine your reactions to certain parts, and how you’d let me ramble on and on about anything, even if it annoyed you.

I like birds now. Not all birds, but small ones that are beautiful blues and ringed red.

The ones that are kept in cages like yours. Dreaming to break away from the cages. Was I your escape or just another cage?

It’s so much easier to write my thoughts at night. I’ve preferred darkness to light since I met you. Even sin is beautiful at night. Everything is so much easier in the dark. More meaningful. There’s too much responsibility in light, too much weight. I like to think about you in the dark, when I can create the picture in my mind and run along with it. For those few snapshots, everything is okay and I’m safe in your arms.

I thought that falling in love would help me understand love and life better, but seems I’m even more confused now.


I write because some nights I cry and I wanna give my tears a reason.

I know I’m depressed, but I also have shit to say.

I have anxiety and sometimes the words bubble in my throat. They try squeeze their way out, so I’m suffocating on the things I wish I could write as eloquently as I think.

I write because I’m tired of planning out conversations and reactions that never happen.

Tired of the disappointment when the real thing never goes the way I planned it in my head.


Sometimes I wish people could read my mind. Other times I make things complicated cuz I think they can.

That’s usually how I fuck up most of my relationships.

I like the idea of a surprise but not actual surprises. The idea is romantic but the actuality is terrifying.

I’ve had enough surprises, they’ve lost their glamour.

I’m good at giving people advice, I’m just trash at taking my own.

Sometimes I just start talking to myself out of nowhere.

Like, I’ll be doing something and a sentence just pops out.

I think, subconsciously, there’s a shit ton I wanna say so it just leaks out from time to time.

It’s weird cuz I never seem to stop talking but I never say anything important.

My head hurts a lot. I wonder from what. Too many reasons to count I guess.

Check, check, check the messages….

Nope no text back.

Favorite book quote of the moment “Possession is nine-tenths of the law”.

Water, it’s time for water. I need hydration.

2:40 am.

Artfully disheveled: my goal in life.

I think my skin is bursting with so much life that odd bubbles pop out.

Uneven, slightly scratched, way too dry skin….

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