Closed Doors

I was told, and told often,

“Oh Dear you’ll have to walk,

Alone.” I shivered, gulped, stumbled,

And thought, “I’ll wave galaxies with

A swing of my hand, and whisper my will.

But how am I supposed to be happy

When I’m alone, atop my magnificent hill?”

My palm in their hands, they said,

“Remember to keep your stars

Quite close.” I let go, the lies, they told

For sometimes your stars are the ones

Keeping your doors closed.

For My Daughter

Something lovely I found online that I'd like to repost here!

FOR MY DAUGHTER

By Sarah McMane

“Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be.” – Clementine Paddleford

Never play the princess when you can
be the queen:
rule the kingdom, swing a scepter,
wear a crown of gold.
Don’t dance in glass slippers,
crystal carving up your toes --
be a barefoot Amazon instead,
for those shoes will surely shatter on your feet.

Never wear only pink
when you can strut in crimson red,
sweat in heather grey, and
shimmer in sky blue,
claim the golden sun upon your hair.
Colors are for everyone,
boys and girls, men and women --
be a verdant garden, the landscape of Versailles,
not a pale primrose blindly pushed aside.

Chase green dragons and one-eyed zombies,
fierce and fiery toothy monsters,
not merely lazy butterflies,
sweet and slow on summer days.
For you can tame the most brutish beasts
with your wily wits and charm,
and lizard scales feel just as smooth
as gossamer insect wings.

Tramp muddy through the house in
a purple tutu and cowboy boots.
Have a tea party in your overalls.
Build a fort of birch branches,
a zoo of Legos, a rocketship of
Queen Anne chairs and coverlets,
first stop on the moon.

Dream of dinosaurs and baby dolls,
bold brontosaurus and bookish Belle,
not Barbie on the runway or
Disney damsels in distress --
you are much too strong to play
the simpering waif.

Don a baseball cap, dance with Daddy,
paint your toenails, climb a cottonwood.
Learn to speak with both your mind and heart.
For the ground beneath will hold you, dear --
know that you are free.
And never grow a wishbone, daughter,
where your backbone ought to be.

Battle Scars

Oh, Mother.

How can I say things to you without sounding like I am crying out my words?

Oh Mother,

I cannot tell you about that night 9 years ago

When your husband found me hiding my tears in between the soft fabric of my comfort blanket which didn’t exactly feel comfortable that night.

How do I explain to you the nasty bruised mark it left in invisible ink around my ankle

Which I drag along with me

Every day I go, everywhere I go.

Oh, Mother.

How do I tell you that your voice now hurts my ears every time you yell after coming home at night because it stopped hurting my feelings a long time ago.

Oh, Mother.

How do I kiss you goodnight when I haven’t had a goodnight’s sleep in a year and a half since that night you locked me in my room, thinking I am asleep, and did not return till sunrise.

I lay there, mother, just waiting for your car to return to the parking lot.

But you took my night’s sleep that night and haven’t returned it ever since.

Oh, Mother.

How do I reminisce when my memories don’t involve a bustling house of food and family on a lazy Sunday afternoon in the summer of 2008.

My memories are sharp and I have coloured them with the black crayon I stole from my kindergarten teacher’s cabinet when she wasn’t looking.

Oh, Mother.

How do I tell you that you have been strong like ice and soft like fire because it does make me proud to see how you got through it even though you knew it would mean ending up alone.

Mother,

Can I say these things to you without making you feel guilty?

These insidious facts are less about me and more about your battle scars.

But, mother, how do I explain that to you after all?

Semblance

I wake up

To days that begin with laughter

And joy of being around people.

I fall asleep

To moments of desire

To moments of wanting to not be accepted 

To moments of being the quiet force of hidden jubilancy.

To moments I know I'll always dream of

Because I did not have the courage.

Do I always wake up from that dream

Where I'm camouflaging 

With the very next crowning

Of symbols and serenity

Hiding behind that semblance

Of majesty and malevolence?

I don't. Want to.

Addict

Hello. I’m an addict.

No Please don’t take that step back that you are about to. It’s not contagious, I’m sure you know that. Then what do you fear?

My anticipated cry for help? Or the reproachful glances of the society when they find out who you’ve been talking to?

I can see you standing with that trembling posture.

You don’t know how grateful I am that you didn’t step back, yet I can see by the back-and-forth movement of your toes that you’re unwilling to take a step ahead.

It’s okay.

I’m used to it.

I can feel that pity in your handshake but it makes me happy.

I can see that look of curiosity in your eyes.

I want to answer it and I know you want me to unravel the mystery for you, too.

But I don’t think it’s a good idea. Most of you don’t understand.

You consider it to be a disgrace, of sorts.

But you want to know anyway.

Okay, I’ll tell you.

No, I have a perfectly stable family life. I am not the rich brat who sleeps in manifestations of wealth and dreams of absentee parents.

No, it’s not peer pressure. You see, I don’t exactly have many friends left, do I?

No, it’s not the television or the uncensored media you blame. I know I am stronger than that, even if you don’t believe me as I say it.

No it’s not because I’m depressed. Although, I do fear slipping into that dungeon someday in my life. But when I do, I know I won’t need any of this because that darkness will itself be more commanding.

No, I am not heartbroken and living every moment in the self-deprecating shadows of a boy who forgot to pay attention to me.

No, I don’t hide in my bathroom and shed midnight tears as I watch the numbing red streams of fluid trickle down by thighs.

No, I was not a teen who tripped over the wrong rock and has been unable to get back ever since.

No, I do not how all of you come up with such guesses but I do know that you are wrong.

I am where I am because I want to be here. Or rather, there’s some place else I’d rather not be. Somewhere in my darkness I feel scared. And I would do anything to stay away.

I do this on order to avoid myself.

Which is ironic because in the process of this, it’s the people around me, like you, who start avoiding me; while I am just left there to face myself and a love I know I’ll never receive.

My Mother

7 a.m.

The sun had started to show rather beautifully. The aching rays of sunlight fell profusely on his skin as I stood there naked, burning with indecisiveness and desire both at once. His face, an epitome of innocence perfectly hid the charring that he had tried to cover up all night by attempting to go back to sleep every hour. It had been four hours and here I was, still romanticizing him in my head.

I had been awake for quite a while, making myself some light breakfast as I hid my shame in a towel I found hanging behind his bathroom door.  I had watched him shift from the side of the bed towards the centre. His devouring occupancy made me realize my fleeting grasp on his life. I had owned his presence for one night. For one night, it was mine to hold and exploit as he lay there unaware of light years of pain that he had initiated. I knew, better than anyone, to expect nothing more but were my senses defeating me?

6.30 a.m.

For the most part, I am a deep sleeper. I used to sleep a lot when I was small. What I didn’t know was that I was only that carefree and comfortable with myself.

Nights like these, nights with girls, hardly delivered any sleep. I kept waking up every hour to the smell of the respective sweet feminine perfume, which always smelt like my mother’s.  I’d let it gush into me as I watched my lungs cringe and throw the scent out of my system almost instantly. Sometimes I would even lie in bed just contemplating about who was beside me and what she might say when I told her what haunted me. It was only to while away my time. Fruitless.

Tonight was the same.

I was not surprised.

However, I’m awake right now.  As I lie on my stomach, I don’t see her here. Maybe she’s gone.

I shift towards the centre of the bed. Here it is.

Maybe now I can sleep.  I lie on my back, for reasons of convenience, adjusting myself to the lukewarm temperature of the bed sheet which essentially means she hasn’t been gone long.

My eyes shuffle around in search of some sign of belonging. I can’t see anything.

Thank goodness.

I do speak an awful lot when drunk.

3 a.m.

He is asleep. Or at least he appears to be. His eyes are a little swollen and I can still experience the taste of his evasive alcohol in my mouth. I’m enjoying it. I’m running through his description in my head. As usual, it’s all so poetic and battered. There is a kind of unfathomable damage in poetry itself and I can’t seem to get rid of it.

Those bashful eyelashes, unusually unkempt hair, his obsession with being lousy and his dignified need for being alone; all of it appearing so dynamic in my head. It could be the middle-of-night syndrome where when you have nothing to do; you resort to glorifying the first object your eyes rest on.

When I caught him staring at the marks on my thighs, I knew this was a mistake. He was not conscious enough to treat me with ignorant courtliness and he didn’t.

“Hey, my mom did that to herself too!” he cheered. “In front of me.”

There I was, stripped of my vicious thoughts and shame, dressed in nothing but bland flesh and pretentious valiance and this purposeless one night stand had managed to make me loathe myself for one more night.

I was, suddenly, famished of company and glad that for one night I could wallow in regret with an unconscious stranger, since he had fallen on the bed immediately after, lying next to me.

I was alone, not lonely.

I had a bloodless hand to hold.

I had an insignificant moment.

I had had a crass confrontation.

I was not alone.

2.50 a.m.

What have I done? Why did I say that?

My eyes are closed and my face is dug into the pillow but I can feel the mortifying silence fill the room like a call of death.

Why did she do this to me, My Mother.

Some stories never end

Only when I think

Back, and realise what is gone.

How situations changed

And feelings altered,

Because I'm left rather alone.

How I did not embrace the absence,

Nor let it go.

I slithered into a nutshell,

Careful and slow.

I filled the void

With the omnipresent air,

I left papers 

Some crumpled

All blank,

Only to stare. 

I dug out my eyes,

Watched them blossom

Like a cherry tree.

I thought I was flying,

In solitude and free. 

But what did this bird

Know, apart from the cage.

It was only taught:

All the world's a stage.

One Sentence. One Want.

Thank you everyone for taking a minute out of your preoccupied days and answering in one sentence, what you want. It means a lot to me. 

This was a small project I did for myself. And it was indeed a successful one. 

I had the Gen Y be a part of it for two reasons. 

Firstly, because we are constantly criticised for being extremely materialistic in all aspects of our life. How we're always busy on our Smartphones and pay no heed to the small yet important things in life. How money is the only thing we desire and would do anything to get it.  (However, this is a very controversial statement. All of you who answered my question are, mostly, still in school or (junior) college. Therefore, it is quite obvious that money is not our first concern and we possess the freedom to contemplate other dimensions of life. Taking this into consideration would completely kill the purpose of my project so I'd like to ignore it.)

Secondly, I just wanted to know what people's spontaneous responses would be. 

What I noticed is that most of you did not give materialistic responses. Which, frankly, surprised me because I used to think I'm the only one who doesn't know what she wants when it comes to tangible valuables. In fact, the answers sound rather mature once you read them. 

Is our generation maturing faster? Yes, it is. 

Also, I hardly got any ambitious answers. 

I want to be a journalist but I, myself, would never answer this question with 'I want' to be a journalist. Which is funny because when we start going to school, we are made to write 'FIVE SENTENCES ON MYSELF' at some point. And, if I'm not wrong, "I want to be a Fashion Designer, Engineer, Doctor etc." is always one of the sentences. 

But then, why not now? 

I think it's because overtime we have lost the significance for it. Making a career out of our lives is not something we 'want' any more, rather it's something we know we 'have' to. 

Attend school since the age of 3, get marks, get into a good college, get a job, be rich. We have accepted this to be a system and maybe that's why we don't think of it as something far-off  that we desire.
Nevertheless, this is open to a lot of arguments beyond my thoughts.

A lot of you asked me what I wanted.

I couldn't answer because a new want kept coming to my mind every time I read someone else's answer.

By the end of it, I wanted a lot of things. But I'm going to stick to the first thing that came to my mind. I have incorporated it below because I want to retain absolute anonymity. 

Thank you again for being a part of this. It means a lot to me. If anyone is uncomfortable with their answer then let me know. I'll remove it. Also, don't judge any of the answers. :)
Enjoy reading.

Perfection in all things.

I want to be happy.

I want eternal love.

At least once in my life I want to travel to some place far off all alone.

Happiness without fear.

I really want to be an independent woman in the future.

I really don't know.

I just want to be happy all my life. If I'm happy I wouldn't want anything.

I want to find hope.

No jealousy, only love. 

I want loyalty and trust from everyone I know.

I want the whole world.

I really want to be, what I potentially can be.

I want a political backing and this one girl.

I want to give it all up. 

Knowledge and Peace of Mind.

The engaging cacophony of vibrant enterprise, the sweat and blood of building value, the honour of public service and the the unbridled love of a good woman. 

Freedom. Independence.

I want to learn how to hold on to people.

A Blu-Ray Disc player.

I want fame.

Freedom.

I want to be independent from my worries and feel free from social obligations.

Tattoo.

I really want my Hogwarts acceptance letter because Muggle life is too mediocre; but I would be satiated with one from Oxford too.

Peace of Mind.

A day when I wake up and I feel like not running away, not caring about tomorrow and finally being content.

I want to make my parents proud and find true love. 

Peace of mind, freedom of thoughts, being understood while being me.

Somebody I can open up to.

I really want my leg to be fine so that I can play football again.

I really want love.

A penthouse apartment.

I want abs.

The ability to let go off things that haunt me.

I was reading Harry Potter, so yeah I want a wand.

To travel from the peak of Mt. Everest to the bottom of the Pacific.

I want to know Myself.

I really want to get out of my art block.

I want to know what I want to do in life.

Midnight thoughts

I wanted to pull out pieces of me and burn alive.

I wanted to pierce this silence so that it would grow quieter.

I wanted to laugh at this absurdity till my hopes were famished. 

I wanted to scar someone till they were delicate enough to understand the world.

I wanted to scream for acceptance as an act of rebellion.

I wanted the music to make me fall asleep for more than just a night.

I wanted to tell people I pushed them because I didn't know how to hold on.

I wanted to walk into oceans to fill myself up.

I wanted to desire things.

I wanted to not be so complacent.

I wanted a sentence that could shred my insides repeatedly.

I wanted the swirling galaxies inside me to prove themselves.

I wanted the magnitude of fear to exceed its limit. Then explode.

I wanted the selfish to remain selfish.

I wanted undercover happiness and relentless euphoria.

I wanted clarity of distance.

I wanted a hopeless conversation.

I wanted assurance that we were all going to die.

I wanted green grass at 7 a.m on a sneaky Sunday morning.

I wanted a sun kissed act of poetry.

I wanted my black desires to sleep soundlessly.

I wanted my inadequacy to stop haunting even though I called out to it every night. 

Obscure

Those pen marks

That keep you up

Through nights are just a cure

For when you thought 

They knocked and opened

And barged in through your door. 

You feel lofty and lost

And so obscure,

That it fills you up with beauty

You end up carving on your own.

You never ask

You never tell

You're a byline 

Underneath, unread.

Maybe that's why

When they were scared

They called for help

Didn't hear you yelp

No, no, no.