writingcece

[writingcece]

eldest daughter

i have a weight on my shoulders

what could it be

i am after all just seventeen

is it, maybe

the fact that when i look at the mirror

i hate what i see?

my body isn’t perfect

my skin and hair either

is that the weight?

is it that

i study all day and night long

i lose eyesight on books

my grades aren’t perfect,

my eye bags either

but i am trying

so hard, that maybe

that’s what’s been crushing me?

or is it the fact that

i sacrifice myself in the way

not even a martire does

i do what you tell me to do

i say what you want me to say

i bite my tongue,

blood comes out

not just from my teeth but from my wrists as well

is all that blood my weight?

maybe, it’s from all the compliments

that let me know i’m pretty

and smart

and okay

sure i could be prettier

and smarter

and better

deep down i know i’ll die trying

i don’t know,

perhaps the weight could be

because i do everything

and my sister does nothing

she’s young and pretty

carefree, happy

while i strive for all, she is all

without effort

she doesn’t have my grades

or my books, sure

but all you can see is me

as always, i wish i was invisible

so that you wouldn’t see me

yell at me

wish for someone different

if i was invisible, they wouldn’t see me either

and those compliments wouldn’t happen

and i wouldn’t need to be

anything at all

perfect least of all

is that the weight

i feel on my shoulders?

is the weight

the expectations

the blood

the looks

my mirror

my tears

your voices

your yells

is that the weight

that’s crushing me down

crushing me

pining me

tearing me down

/apart

why did i have to be

the eldest daughter

caring after everyone

but who is caring after me?

[writingcece]

the romanticised version of him

lies in my head, heart and veins

the way he would smile at me

the way he would stare

the compliments he used to whisper in my ear

the little jokes we had

the hidden touches he did

whatever used to make me blush and stutter

whatever used to make me call my friends immediately

the playful jealousy

the angst, the bitterness

even those, i think of as if in a romance novel

all destined to end well,

after all, love is love

my head is being tricked though

by my memories and my heart

because all that’s bad about him

every bit, i forget in a whip

each time my heart says “no”

each time she refuses to see

so maybe she’s at fault too

for making me believe he’s a way nicer guy

than he actually is and ever will be

what about the tears i shed

and the way he made me feel about myself

what about the smiles he now gives her

the way he can’t even meet my eyes, now

the insults he throws at me every day,

one after one

and maybe, i don’t know just maybe

i had believed, i had hoped that he

would really turn out to be a prince

a knight in shining armor, so to say

maybe i believed he would see me

the new me, the one he hadn’t tainted yet

and think,

wow she’s beautiful

so confident and different

but still mine

all he did though was take the old me,

crumple her in his hands with anger

and stomp his feet

he yelled,

where is she

sorry, i’m doing it again

that’s not what he did at all

all he did was give one look to me

his face didn’t relax

his eyes didn’t crinkle or sparkle

his lips didn’t turn up

no, it was blank

a quiet realization came through his mind

and mine too, with a wince

that things weren’t the same as they used to be

and they weren’t going to ever be, again

his realization didn’t hurt

at least, he didn’t show it

i hope, selfishly, it did

i hope it tore his heart apart

and that he scrolls down to see our pictures together

and that he misses my perfume and the way my hair would fly in the air

and the sweater of him i would wear, and the drawings he gave me

that’s just what i do, after all

i wouldn’t want to think he feels any less

although he now looks at her the same way

and talks of her as if she’s the sun

and water, and he’s a flower

i remember, i used to be his gardener

and he, my flower, used to open for me every time

perhaps, what i remember of him

isn’t just the good

perhaps, all that there was to him

was the good, to me

perhaps, all i saw was his soul

and not his actions

perhaps, all i felt was his love

and not my hatred,

for myself

even now writing this i’m romanticizing him

one last time

i’m giving him one last chance

to turn out the way he promised my heart he would

he better hurry

because day after day,

my heart shrinks a little

unready to see what he’s become today

he better hurry because

day after day

i realise he’s just

the romanticised version of him.