about...

Before anyone starts reading, this is equivalent to a diary. Everything I say here came from my soul and wasn’t thought about twice. I have a feeling, so I write it down. Take everything with a grain of salt, I’m a teenager and an angsty one at that.

It should concern people that I do not care about them, sincerely, no emotion is expressed when complaints or praise are voiced about me or at me. I live pretty independently of what people think about me. This makes me a shitty friend to all those who aren’t close to me. Im sorry to all those who thought my friendliness meant we could be friends. I dress in pastels, I don’t have muscles — frankly I’m extremely weak. My appearance speaks before I get to. Both racial prejudice but also to those who may look past that — Im a sweet young girl, with a polite face and pink make up. I smile, I laugh, but then get closer and an imminent unemotionality strikes harder than my attempts to care. Im not going to be as soft as expected, I won’t care.. I don’t do it purposely. I do not know why some people get emotion privileges and others don’t. Sometimes this even seems arbitrary because those who sacrificed for me, I end up caring nothing for. Some hope it’s a phase, they hope I can love like they love me. You can hope relationships as much as chess — not at all. Im creative, I drown myself in a bubble full of all my art, all my writings, and all my melodies. It’s beautiful inside of me, it’s careless and so free from judgement, and it’s comfortable and peaceful because it’s silent, and quiet. I contradict. How emotional and vulnerable I become with the select few. I think if I loved others too, it would cut from the cake of those I care about now. It would cut from their slices, and from mine. It’s good then, that my care is reserved for very few people.



I think it’s so stupid how people think the way I write determines how I talk in real life. I use proper grammar and punctuation but still, my personal preference shines through. I place spaces before and after an em-dash because that’s my preference, I don’t like to leave out the apostrophe in “I’m” and “don’t”, but it still happens to me. Despite my “seriousness” in speech, I use kaomojis, I make typos and sometimes capitalize words I didn’t intent to capitalize just because when I write in all caps, those designed words are most often used. I just dislike seriousness, uprightness, and “professionalism”. I think they’re pretentious. I think people who try to appear that way are usually the most degenerate, insecure and uncritical. Those who can’t admit to themselves their lies and façade. Despite it I respect them, they have a determination for success or praise or respect born out of fear that I couldn’t force out of myself even in the trenches of despair. It’s fascinating and depressing at the same time. The reason I’m saying all this, is to be honest. I don’t speak like this in real life — in the flesh. This is how I talk in my head, in my writings, and how I would prefer to talk with friends. But once I adopt this speech into my usual manner of speaking, I will only attract the people I’ve described above. Unauthentic, unrealistic, plain… Disgusting.


sweet 16

I notice, I’ve always been a little preoccupied with thoughts to distract me from joy. Anticipation was never a true experience. Even when I did experience it — undertones flying like tinsels in hair would show. Undertones of a little disappointment. I was a contradictory child it seems, because everyone who knew me describes me vastly differently. The only reliable narrator seems to be me, the subject in and of the experience. I don’t know now, what to do with the things left from the past because these experiences seize to be mine when I have to ask others to tell me what I felt. I have 2 kinds of memory. The one where all the negative experiences are erased, and a forged beautiful memory is created. And that, which doesn’t exist anymore, and no one wants to tell me what fills the blank. Today, Tuesday 12th August 2025 is my birthday, and I turn 16. 10 years ago, I remember nothing from my 6th birthday.

about myself.
I guess the indifference is a double edged sword then. Not caring about others doesn’t mean I care about myself, but still I’m human, so self confidence if not from me, has to come from others. How is that supposed to happen if I take everyone’s words with too many grains of salt, and sometimes too many grains of sugar if I find what they say is important. I would like someone to hold up a mirror of truth up to my face, that doesn’t warp my reflection, but doesnt place flowers around my face either, so I can recognize really what’s happening. I’m as blind as anybody else in that regard, despite how I may feel and view things differently. And is the disappointment self inflicted and melodramatic, or do I have a point?

My Body frequently confuses me. I do not understand why my face is that shape, why my eyes stare that way, and why people look at me like that. Often times, I don’t believe this is my body. I think of it as a shadow, so when light falls onto me, and I wake up on a gentle morning, and stare at my self — I can only barely belive I’m real, I’m here, I’m alive. I breathe and live and think and experience, but I don’t believe my body is alive. I’m not talking about this metaphorically, although that wouldn’t be so inaccurate either… Experiencing pain is very dull, no matter how hard I get hit, it hurts mentally and emotionally first before I ever experience it physically. My body feels like vapor, taking on the shape my mind would. This body is a tool, it exists to protect me when my mind can’t. That’s the only way I can make sense of my physical existence.
If I were to paint myself. What would become? What colors, what contrast? What could you take from that painting that isn’t entirely empty?

For the longest time you have been all I ever wanted, but it was always overshadowed by something. Utility, distrust, other people or other emotions… Theres always been a veil above this feeling, it’s gotten comfortable below it because like with any intense feeling — lifting the veil would reveal me naked, cloaked in disgusting adolescent fantasy. I don’t understand it, because I’m a terribly selfish person. When I like someone it’s rarely because I genuinely like their personality or appearance or whatever. More often than not, I just want something from that person, it’s not always something concrete, the things I want are always a little more deliberate, but recently it’s been developing into that too. Unfortunately they’re the excuse, one of the only times there has ever been exceptions to the rule. I try to write about them, but it doesn’t work. I can’t get an honest word on paper. I lie. To myself, on my paper with my pencil. I am scared to see what it would mean to care in an honest manner. I have been very comfortable not caring about anybody else’s breath. I have been very, very, very comfortable cutting for myself the biggest slices, and leaving the rest with crumbs and charity. The blueberries on my slice I never liked, that I’d cut off and give, and gratitude would come my way, I’ve been very lucky to not have many question it. But now I become my own enemy. Now, I want to cut my cake pieces, and gift them more than I thought I would ever give anyone. What? The cake I baked myself, stole from others myself, and it’s no longer mine? They decorate it with me, my heart, my life, the cake, and now I love them. They made it all the more beautiful, they made my time on earth all the more worthwhile. It’s become so beautiful, I would prefer to never touch my plate ever again, and forget hunger, forget the sweet tooth, the craving… And leave it to them, to enjoy from me what I would steal from others. I become my own enemy. It’s like im the traitor from within. This eternally beautiful thing I had with myself, like a promise to always be with me, stand by my side. But now I stand on the outside of my walls, I jumped from my mirror reflection, because their faces are so much more beautiful, and because the touch of skin is so much more comfortable than that of stone, and sweat and metal. The taste of holding hands is so much more fulfilling than any cake I’ll ever taste. This sudden enlivening of my emotions has made me the most pathetic that Hue has ever been. Does it make any difference, that atleast I’m aware?

It’s a very interesting motion I make through myself when faced with shame. When I feel attacked by some part of my heritage, I cut away everything that connects me to it, I ask why I can’t just have been born any kind of European. And when I realize that even if I were, they would still hate me so much, this time for my critique, my voice, my feelings, me as the person I am, it crumbles in my hands. My skin color and heritage just speak to them first, they just want an excuse to hate and it’s easiest to hate whats obvious first. I don’t know how to explain it all. I don’t notice myself, I walked through streets and I never noticed I received different looks, I assumed it was my fashion. But even when I looked normal I still got these looks and I didn’t know what it was. It’s only now, so late… I mean I lived here 11 years and I never felt a stranger, but I am. And more than that, im an enemy. I’m friendly, Im helpful, I speak “their” language, I exist. I don’t think I mean any damage. Is the label “migrant” still there after naturalization? Why can’t I exist as I am? What does it even mean? What does it mean that I have more melanin than them? I’m still me, I’m still human. It’s so much weirder when I try to talk to people “like me”. Because they hate me too, and sometimes they too hate me for the lazy reasons the Europeans make up. What? Sometimes they hate me because I’m me, Artist and writer. Or because they just want to. I don’t know how I can justify myself anymore, and it’s ridiculous because I thought that my existence was justified just through that. How do I justify that Im alive to someone who will never recognize me as human. Im as valuable as a stone, or as a pig that has to die for breakfast. Im not even human... Why do you ask me where I’m from if I’m speaking German with no accent? Why do you look at me like that when I’ve always been here, you’ve all known me here since 2015, you know me. Why are you looking at me like that? Why do they stare at me like that? Do you fail to see my humanity despite having lived with and been with me all this time? Is all you really recognize my Muslim name, my Sudanese heritage and my dark skin color? Is this all I will be to anyone? I ask why can’t I just have been European. I paint my life brighter, easier.
Ich frage:
Erzählt mir wie ich sterben muss um im nächsten Leben weiß zu sein. Und vielleicht müssen einfach alle von euch sterben. Nichts an mir ist falsch. Nichts an meinen Tränen, an meiner Haut und an meinen scheiß Genen ist irgendwas falsch. Aber alles… alles an euch ist falsch.

Am I really just an immature and ungrateful 16 year old, or is this serious? When does it stop being phases. When does substance abuse become serious, when does the inability to bond become serious. Is it to everyone else just pathologization? Fair, it is suspicious when someone can assign very specific things to themselves, I get suspicious too. I guess in that case, you’re all right. But on the off chance that this is serious. And it progresses into the worse with all the belittling — I’ll be 27 and lost and there will be no one to blame but myself, myself at 16, and all the ages before and after. If I was aware, why didn’t I do anything? If I was suspecting it, why didn’t I say anything? I don’t know what I’ll do then. I’ll still be alone with the same struggle from 11 years ago. I wonder what I will become. What my future looks like. I want to sleep in white bedsheets. As long as my own room will be clean and empty, I’ll be happy. One big window and a mattress is all. I don’t care what happens of me so long I haven’t touched meth and cocaine and nicotine. I hope I die drowning in the Ostsee, or maybe far away from Germany. And my body is found during ebb tide. I hope I’ll be dressed in all white and I’ll have my phone near, to document whatever last words I have to speak, so then the sea can swallow my soul with my words into oblivion. With my soul – please world forget me. Everyone forget me. I hope no one will recognize my face, and my name will have been changed. And my grave contains nothing but an estimation of my birth year. World forget me. Forget Hue, Miq, Menna & usernames. Whatever I have been and will be… forget me.
*** But in retrospection. You aren’t there to tell me it’s a phase anymore. What has your disappearance done, if not sunken me deeper into it. A pathetic loser, because my heart cant carry with faith, the future or your disappearance. I opt for the lazy way out.
Hedonism&such.
Come back, and tell me again, what a loser I am, how it’s a phase, how I’ll get better. Because now I’m just a teenager, and I’ll know when I’m older. Come back, and hurt me to heal me again.



In my right hand, I wield a wand and I create beautiful things. My wand is a paint brush.
In my left hand, I wield a sword and I fight the enemy. My sword is the ultimate (my ego).
Sometimes, in both my hands — I wield a flag, I recognize my wrongs. My flag is the sacrifice of both my left and right hand. Those which give and take, share and hoard. Caress and strike.
Sometimes they are with blood, I am one violent hound. I can never tell if the violence is out of fear and desperation or greed and destruction.
Sometimes they hold flowers and I make crowns, and I place them on the head of children and they make them necklaces. I can never tell, if my goodness is pure, or a ploy to satiate the everlasting guilt, that motivates me to be the embodiment of goodness.
Ultimately, I exist as a human. I create and I destroy, it’s all the same. Destruction and creation. On altruistic self sacrifice and egomaniac auto cannibalism, they exist as one.


It's so special when I love
It isn't. I'm not extraordinary and my love isn't something everyone is missing out on. But the experience and the systems I create to love, then my friendships dismantle them. I become so naked. So vulnerable. I let my armor and my tower fall. I erase sword and shield from my memory, I'm human. Whenever it hurts. I retreat to them so fast. Armor, sword and shield like my friends are war. Like love is a battle of survival. I become so violent, and so apologetic. Because between such comforting touch and such comforting safety. I simply can't tell... if isolation and banishment are my salvation, or scars all over me, but at least I am embraced... I lose myself, and regain myself again. I lose sleep over this and get my face all salty and disgusting. Am I going to embody the cruelty of war, the desolation of a knight and the piercing with the sword; to conquer survival for me once and for all. Or will I embody the dutiful knight. The sacrificial knight. Fighting for anyone but myself - will I sacrifice myself for something greater than me (friendship, love, commitment, feeling)? Inside of my ivory tower, inside of my armor. I sweat, I'm numb. I don't even notice my isolation, when I have nobody to talk to I don't notice it hurts me. Unlike when I am outside. Outside of myself, surrounded by others. I cry, I'm afraid. I love and I show none of it. Suspicion. The melody of question plays until they return that of reassurance. It takes so long, so long... for me to let go fully of my suspension filled body. Muscles alwasy ready to fight for myself again. Twitching, shaking, afraid. Imagine when I let myself fall, I sacrife, I feel. I allow myself to be human, and the one with the sword is infact not me, but the other. And despite my careful consideration to drop mine, I am stabbed. What shape does my ivory tower take then? What becomes of the metal that used to oxidize my skin? What becomes of my apathy. I fall in the war I fight and start. I clear the vision but I didn't know my ally would become my enemy. I never even considered the idea of an alliance, I assumed everyone but myself an enemy always — why did I suddenly switch? If not for the sincere reason to be loved. To be embraced. Weak human I am, that I can't even defend myself in the flesh, but I need armor. That my friendships are war to me. That I am so weak, I have to act so strong.
(Please dont come check my website g*. I cant tell yet if I **** you.)

I notice they really all say "I love you" before it ends. Usually the most needed words said at the worst time imaginable. Why? To make it more painful? To make it clear your regret is stronger than your gratitude for the person when you still had them? Such a lazy move, such a sensitive heart, that speaks before it breaks. You don’t need me to blame you do you. You know yourself how you miss them. Your guilt consumes you, we are both human, and pathetic and frail.
Rest.


„I keep on hoping to find you, I’m dying to.“ Sehnsucht. Ich vermisse es, wie deine Hand meine umschloss, wie dein Körper meinen umrandete und ich mich wie Form und Fläche widersprüchlich in dich verloren habe, als wärst du die Linie, die meinen Körper definiert. Die Angst, die du mir gabst, und die du mir dann mit Worten wieder nahmst. Nachts verwischen meine Erinnerungen mit meinen Sinnen, und ich fühle das Gefühl, aber auch die Tränen – beides zugleich. Im Delirium, zwischen Wachsein und Schlaf, wo ich nur noch in Bildern und Gefühlen denke, erinnere ich mich an die Nacht und den Tag, jene heiligen, die ich in deiner Präsenz erleben durfte. Tagsüber merke ich, wie im Hinteren meines Kopfes deine Augen mich in meinen Abgrund ansehen. Du kennst mich seelisch, tiefer als ich mich selbst. Jede Scham entfloh mir, auch als du meine Lügen und meinen Egoismus in den Details analysiertest, weil ich wusste, du sahst in mir auch das ungewöhnlich Schöne und Neue. In mir sahst du, was du in dir selbst nicht fandest. Heute bin ich nachts beängstigt. Du fehlst. Als würde eine Region irgendwo in meinem Körper jetzt leer stehen, als wären alle Menschen um mich herum verschwunden. Ich vermisse dich heute schlimmer als vor unserem ersten Worttausch. Ich vermisse deine Nähe, die mich trotz allem ganz kalt ließ. Ist das Sehnsucht, die dich in meiner Erinnerung warm schmückt, oder ist es wahr? War ich dir je so nah, wie ich es mir erhoffte? Belügen meine Erinnerungen mich? War ich dir je wichtig? Irgendwo in mir versuche ich, eine neue Version von dir aufzubauen, die mich tröstet, die ich vergessen kann, aber überall erscheinst du mir wieder. Wie in einem Spiegel-Labyrinth verliere ich meine Kraft, aber statt meiner Reflexion ist es deine. Und du ziehst mich hinein, tiefer und tiefer in das Versinken. Es gibt für mich keine Möglichkeit, dich zu lieben, ohne dabei mich selbst zu verlieren. Du verschlingst mich und entschuldigst dich nicht. Dies ist die Erinnerung an dich, die ich verdränge: Als du dich in mein Herz gebissen hast und ich es akzeptierte. Als ich mir zu meiner Sicherheit eine Metallrüstung nahm, und du es trotzdem durch die Risse und Rillen in mich hinein geschafft hast, meine Haut wie Ätze durchdrangst und Verletzungen hinterlassen hast. Aber wie sanft deine Haut, wie dein Biss mir Geduld beibrachte und wie diese Verletzungen mich schmückten.
Die Nacht bei dir im Halbschlaf: Ich wollte dich, und ich habe dich gehen lassen. Ich habe verzichtet – für dich. Ausnahmsweise ging ich nicht mit Schwert oder Schild in die Schlacht; bei dir war ich in meinem schwächsten Moment. Ich wollte, dass du das erkennst. Ausnahmsweise: altruistische Selbstaufopferung [altruistic self sacrifice].
Für dich.
Für dich.
Für dich...


He is the manifestation.
He doesn’t treat me humanely. He doesn’t respect me, or my existence. It’s born from pain, I know that. “I don’t like you.” Is a harsh and cold final response to a day worth of effort trying to bond with me over tik tok videos. But in the end, what does it express itself as. I wouldn’t ever say “I don’t like you” to him, if he did the minimum of respecting me. Still being human to me, the way I am to him despite — frankly hating his every breath. But it’s so much bigger isn’t it. He isn’t just an individual, he is definitely not authentic enough to develop individuality. He is the family, the family crown jewel. He manifests the contradictory religious values, the ignorance, the dehumanization. And because he is a man in the patriarchy, he is violent. He is the family, he is the symbol of our family. The family does well when he is, the family feels about me how he feels about me. The pattern is unmistakable. And it deems me the mistake. I’m far from the core of the problems, but because I made them visible I am the problems.


hedonism&such. I am nothing if I cant express myself loudly, violently and in boldness. The urge to fill all the silence with something really loud. YES do mosh pit me, loud music; make my ear drums bleed, make me forget I have a life outside of escape. Escape in music, sensation and expression.
Elements of this are techno music, raves, party, monochrome, technology, and an apeal for exclusivity and high fashion but also swords, weapons, the morgenstern, bright lights and mythology. you could call this "the prodigy adolescent".

I never know how to feel about representation. It always lacks something. For this image, it elaborates the Islam I grew up with as an African with Arab/African upbringing. But I’m not Muslim, and I don’t want to be Arab, I don’t feel connected to Arab culture or nationality aside from my upbringing. I grew up in Germany, I was born in Sudan, learned about Islam with my Muslim family in a Christian white racist country and now I’m something neither Germans, Family, Arabs or Africans want. I’m a weird mixture of so much and still I can’t look outside of myself and find anything I relate with. I know how I experience myself, how I identify myself. But no one will take that serious. The way I want to exist in this world hasn’t existed as a country or society, I must be insane for not behaving, not complying. African Muslim Migrant German girl*. Constantly I’m dehumanized, belittled for the most stupid things. By family, for being bad at Arabic, Infact not wanting to learn it anymore, for being difficult, being “corrupted by the west”. By German society, for being defensive when they “critique” Islam, Arab culture, African heritage, name it and they’ll have a Hitler to quote. Even when they’re not aversive racists they don’t know how to talk to me, they don’t know I’m human like them. And today they vote away my rights. By my closest friends, they can’t accept I’m different. They block out what makes me Arab, African, political, “complicated” and only focus on what connects us for comfort. I don’t need friends that deny me because they can’t handle nuance. This one is the hardest to me. I value friendship over anything, my friends hold a very special place in my life, yet they can’t even accept I’m different and still view me as human. They need to block it out to be able to like me. On this huge planet, there is no space for a girl* like me. There is no comfort for a girl* like me. But I’m real and I’m human. I carry so much history in me from all these countries and people, I know more than them. I’m not wrong, I know I’m not because I can recognize humanity, I’m not worrying how to speak to someone different from me. I’m not confused about policy and politics. I carry more humanity in me because of the inhumanity I’ve experienced. I know I’m right because I know how to accept myself.

Magical thinking has started creeping up on me. Are the people I love nicer to me on good weather days and meaner to me in bad weather… There is no correlation. But I’m scared enough to avoid them on every rainy, stormy, cold day. I’m afraid enough. I hate the pain. Because I’m devoted, I love deeply. And I love selectively and scarcely and anxiously. Every attachment is sacrifice. I give myself entirely. Every scar is close orbit around death. Again my relationships are a battlefield. It’s proven itself, all the times I lay my armor down I experience shock. My relationships are beautiful, they keep me warm, they nurture me. But their positive effects can only be felt from a distance. It is like a fire. It is warm, it provides light and homeliness. But getting too close burns, and that is what I fear. I used to want to get as close as possible, I used to want to metaphorically merge and be a witness to someone’s core. Now I know better than to fall for this romanticized ideal Human image. Now I know better.

Drugs or friendship. Don’t put me in this position.. With the drug I achieve minimally what I want in human connection, the feeling that runs through my body and radiates and makes me feel okay. Makes me vulnerable, and imagine that I’m in some way loved. Despite the beautiful feeling It’s only a 4-6 hour long mocking of friendship & connection. Upon retrospection, it fails to nurture the feeling. The come down is a week long depression that I have to endure. The consequences of isolation and longing. I become risky, suicidal and anxious, but it’s nothing I wouldn’t feel naturally, only now it has an occasion. With people the effect is way timid, less aggressive and stressful. A pleasant feeling induced by being hugged, spoken to nicely or comforted goes a week and doesn’t pale. Its effects are felt throughout labor and depression and hurt. It reaches the core and becomes motivation. It is purpose. Maybe I just am overly sensitive, but an unpleasant feeling too runs a week. It stores itself in memory and rather than being a radiating sensation, it feels like it seeps, from body to heart to core, and it too becomes motivation, negative motivation, and it steals life power and purpose. Enough of it and it begins to ache. Everything begins to ache. Body, muscles in your arms and legs. Heart, lungs and mind. You become preoccupied with your most pressing desire as a human. I don’t have many friends, I choose few people for myself and lack the capacity to maintain many relationships. I end up having 1-2 true relationships and a maximum of 4 other ones, and the rest I do not care about. I rely on my relationship like anyone else, because despite everything I’m still human. It’s so painful when many things crumble at once. I never know what to do because usually, that is all I have been able to accomplish. I am a slow builder, and a careful and afraid one. Everyone else seems to be able to maintain much more than me in way shorter time, but that simply isn’t me. I am slow, I experience joy quickly and pain throughout months. I am the perfect recruit for MDMA drug addiction. I have no idea how I have been able to remain sober for so long. But that isn’t a celebration. At least 14 year old me had fun in between their depressive episodes. Wow this is small. An addiction story like all the others. My only constraint truly is my age. I think once I’m legally an adult, wow it will only get worse. Never will I call home though, never will I call a friend, there is no friend to call anyway. I have been cruel, and demanding and impatient and selfish. And I don’t even mean this in a self deprecating manner. Many times has my incapacity for love hurt people, many times has my misunderstanding brought people frustration and forced them to handle their feelings on their own. It is okay that I’m alone in everything I feel, it makes sense that my death will genuinely most likely be an overdose. This is how my life goes, I don’t have much time left, I’m 16 and 17 is this year and one day I will be 18, and alone and I’ll be okay for a while. And after I have been okay, I will not be okay. The problems from my youth are far from resolved. They have seeped through every year and followed me from age 5 to now. They are stacked and full of anger, resentment, pain and shame. It will crash upon me like the wave that pulls me into the sea, my death will be the unspectacular ripe Moment of the crash. I embrace, and hope to be embraced. “Death is release, is resolution. And whatever comes after or doesn’t come after, is resolution.” – Hue, May 2025