about...

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 appeal 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 the 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 they 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 pandoras box — lifting the veil would reveal it all, and that would come with more problems. 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 material, but recently it’s been developing into that too. Unfortunately these persons are 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 in 3 pieces, and gift them more than I thought I would ever give anyone. What? The cake I baked myself, and it’s no longer mine? They decorate it with me, 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 the 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 glass, and pillows and perfume. 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 art, my voice, my feelings, me as the person I am, my skin color and heritage just speak to them first, and they learn to hate that 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 the 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 because I’m dark. What? Sometimes they hate me because I’m aware, or because they just want to. I don’t know how I can justify myself anymore, and it’s ridiculous because I thought that I existed 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 known me since I was 5, you know me. Why are you looking 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? Why can’t I just have been European?
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, that’s all. As long as my own room will be clean and empty. I’ll be happy. One big window and a mattress is all I ask. 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 the sea can swallow my soul with my words into oblivion, 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, Melody, Menna, whatever I have been, and will be… forget me.