I built castles in the air and every once in a while, I would flap my wings to visit. It had sort of things a child wished to acquire. There was freedom, and I could be as reckless as I wanted to be without hearing an earful later on. My hands were not tied to some problems of the adults around me thus, I did not need to act tough. When it hurt, I would bawl my eyes out for a couple of minutes, and it was not being a crybaby. I would have stayed in this little space my head occupied, if only my young age was an enough reason to not grow up immediately.
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Gradually, caves beneath my eyelids house dreams I chose to no longer carry.
My mother loved dressing me up. Even father at times would hold a comb to put my hair in various styles. Nonetheless, memory blurs. To grow up is to be constantly bombarded with questions, were you happy as a kid? and the answer will be, I guess. The truth is, I cannot recall it clearly anymore. However, I remember being five and joining a school pageant for daycare students where I proudly announced that someday, I would be a model. And I was suddenly seven, I was not to be fragile. It was cruel. I thought. How cruel. I stopped celebrating birthdays then fisted my spine to fit. Tell me, how tiny do I have to be? Where should I place this loneliness other than let it swell from the back of my throat?
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I am a daughter before a dreamer. Before an older sister, I was a dreamer.
For so long, I wondered what it actually meant to be a daughter. I got to figure it out now, aside from being born into violence, it is also to be a reflection of my mother. Of her silent fears and misery. It resonates within my whole being: “This grief knows your name as well as mine. It howls, and haunts, and whispers, I am what you cannot outgrow.” As if a mantra. We are no different from each other yet I want the world in my hands, she simply wants to be part of it. My body feels like a cathedral of rage, of everything she does not find pleasing about her body. Often my skin itches and I have scratched it to such extent of wishing I could be made clean again. You see, I fear I have grown terrible at offering kindness to myself. I was not taught to be gentle, anyway.
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“Half daughter, half apology, all fire and the wrong kind of love.”
Blythe Baird, If My Body Could Speak.
I am on my own, I always have been. I do not hope to be pitied. I am so much smaller than life but I utter, look, I am here. I raised myself. I raised me. I do not have anything to offer but my words. Each time I write, I tear a bone to be louder. Here I am alive, I have survived. Although, I cannot find the right sentences to make sense sometimes, I seek to be understood. I pin rainbows in paperbacks and press my weight on the pages I bared my vulnerabilities. I am made of flesh and aching bones. I am my different types of longings. I wander and dream still, albeit far from being childlike. Do you now see riot in these bruises?
Youth In Scraping Sunsets,
Alice Roesidhi
Alice
I used to stumble upon dreams where I was floating as a child, it went higher and higher—the world seemed tinier in my eyes. There were several nights I would have a similar dream when I started to be older, the only difference was the fall that occurred shortly afterwards. It happened so often I no longer remember how I actually felt. One time, I noticed a small crack that made everything crumble and I sank. I never ceased slipping until then.
Hello! I go by the name Alice, under the username @lienric. A graduating senior high school student. I am from Laguna, Philippines. I enjoy doing a lot of things although, I am far from being considered as consistent. Yet I know that we are just trying to survive, and my pets are here to keep me alive. I write when all there is for me to tolerate becomes unbearable, or on some days I think I am a giant with hands I do not recognize.
Lots of thanks to @tpkidkai and @rks.wuhdrelis. I am glad to be part of this platform. Photo retrieved from on Instagram. Nice to meet you.
Hi : )
Hi >< do you want to kimss?
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