Poor Things

The Ignorance. The Innocence. Madness. Poor little things. I can't quite remember how it felt the first time I dashed one of my toes in the door frame, or how I came home crying after I stumbled and grazed my kneecaps off on the ground. I don't know how I managed to go to school the next day after I got hit by a motorcycle from the day before, and when I almost broke my right leg because of it. I was seven years old when I stopped celebrating my birthday. Papa said money's just enough to meet day's end, and I should learn how to be the big guy, the older brother who knows he needs to be more understanding of the situation. At such a young age, I never really quite experienced things in the same ferventude kids walk around the park, holding both their parent's hand, while occasionally pointing out small fun souvenirs beside the sidewalks. Balloons were such a luxury for me back then. And ice cream, I was athirst for it almost half my life. We never really had less, but also we never really had enough. I do remember certain memories, although I am still quite not sure of how it felt at that time. Like how I never really hugged my mother but held hands with another. How I liked the idea of watching dogs from the distance, those cute fur balls I had always been scared at. And it lingers. Everyone of them. Every single curious thing I ever did just to feel something. Like how I tried to draw, tried to read books almost as if it became an obsession and I am mostly part of a bigger movement, a revolution of words. Like how I tried to swim and almost drown myself for trying to hurt myself in the shower. I still remember the first time I fell in love. The third time I confessed and it was twice devastating the next time around. But I held on to it. I held on to the hands that first held me. I held on to such empty promises that ever made me full. I still remember the first time I kissed someone. The first time I made a poem when I was 12 and right away I fell in loved with writing. I love to love. It always came out as if it's the first time I gave out too much of myself and the first time I died. I love so anxiously, reaching erroneous. But I never quite understood how it happened. How it felt for the first time it came and the first time it went away. But I know it's there, the love for the world, for someone. I love to love despite it's cruelness. I break just to be whole again. And because I know I am made out of every fine linings of a childhood I never had, of a person I never became, it became easier for me to tapped into the reality of the world. You can hinder people, but you can never hinder a gun. Two shots, one fired, I am alive. I am a life. I am beautiful. Someday, I’ll know what it means to be human enough, only for now, I’ll have to be vulnerable first. I can't remember half of the days I waste. I can't remember how each touch feels different. Each experience. Each memory of the days I died. But I am immensely thankful I never quite learned how it is to be child. Maybe if I did, I wouldn't be as full of love now.