You were brought into this world,
reluctantly at best.
No one was happy when you were born.
No, they wanted a boy and
out you came, a girl.
They considered aborting you
or killing you,
I don’t remember.
I just remember they did not want you.
But your mother saved you
and welcomed you into this world.
A world full of second-hand love at best.
You weren’t loved,
but you didn’t know that you weren’t loved.
Because you didn’t know what love was.
You saw pain and tried to forget it,
tried to forget what you saw and heard.
But I remember some things.
Your brain got pretty good at
getting rid of memories,
unwanted ones… painful ones.
But I remember brief moments,
The emotion you felt in those moments,
that, I clearly remember.
On most days,
you go about your life as if everything is okay.
But then something triggers you and
the avalanche of memories and emotions,
of baggage, hits you in the face.
You cry, you feel defeated,
you think about dying, but you don’t die.
Kudos to you for that.
But aren’t you already dead?
You keep moving in circles,
chasing your own tail.
You keep suppressing your baggage until it bursts
and shrieks in your face again.
Demanding to be heard,
to be recognised.
But you refuse to do that,
I guess you don’t know how.
As I write this, I see you crying.
Even though you’ve grown up,
you are still the same child
you were years ago,
cowering in the corner,
crying herself to sleep,
hoping for it all to be over
but never having the courage to end it.
I feel sad for you
and still, you frustrate me.
I hate you as well.
Just like all those other people,
I hate you too.
I refuse to recognise your efforts
and I refuse to empathise with you.
And maybe that is why you look outwards for love,
for you have none for your self.
Janhavi is a class 12 student from Allahabad, Uttar Pradesh.
Featured image credit: mohamed Hassan/Pixabay