Follow Me Home

Never stretch out your hand to receive

But always hold out your hand to give an helping hand

The man who calls on children

When the sky is bright

Is a master in luring

Don't follow him home,

You know better

'But what if I seek to find out his treasures?

...

To have more to give others'

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"Bola"

I woke up to the repeated chanting of my name by mother in an attempt to awake me.

But I was melting from the sweet embrace of my blanket. Such an attempt only rendered as an annoyance to me. I swiftly blocked it from my mind until the chants grew much so that it chilled the air. And I could no longer feel the warmth from my blanket. Thus I awoke. Fully this time.

I had a lot on my plate, responsibilities and food. Managing school with a teenage brain aint an easy feat. So I turned to my phone, where the only task I had to do was scroll: It eased me of my daunting fear of failure. It never pleased my parents, but my grades gave them selective memory loss which later transformed to selective rewriting (where they would recollect me playing on my phone as studying). Grades did wonders; a guaranteed miracle-giver. And so I grew relying on my phone to give my mind warmth when I couldn't jump onto my blanket, and my grades to blind my parents from seeing the bruises I was giving myself. Funny.

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That went on for a long while until I bruised so bad I needed... Even now, I'm not sure what I needed then, but I know I bled badly so, my life was stained red. And grades still did wonders: my parents were blindsided by my grades. Truly a miracle-giver.

I had formed a bubble round me that was seemingly clear but blurs the bruises that I made. But now I know that the bubble never blurred anything. Everyone who watched me while I was in the bubble were blind to them. And the bruises I made formed scars. I started making those bruises by playing: I'd hurt myself and be pacified so I wouldn't let out a screeching cry. That habit I did while playing as a toddler soaked its root in me and grew deeper, while its leaves flung higher. Perhaps they couldn't see those bruises because it so resembled the bruises I gifted myself as a toddler (coupled with ignorance). But the more I grew in age, the smarter I became. A clever child I was called. The smarter I became, the better I bruised myself. I had made an attack potion of 'sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can also hurt me' and a relief potion of 'hush now, little girl'. How funny. I'd hurt myself because I felt hurt by them and ignore my hurting. So perhaps they couldn't see those bruises because I made them within me (internally).

But then, wasn't it 'sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me'?

When did I replace the last phrase?

But today what I deal with today is the failure I've shown my parents through my grades, not the failure I've shown myself through my bruises. The fear of the daunting failure grew so much it covered my sight of internal pain, and I learned to develop in a way they wouldn't see the child within me. Because to them all who saw those bruises I was always merely but a child.

I was always merely but a child.

And so they never bother.