I had tiny sparkles bruised on my knees back when I used to sweat dragonflies at turbid noons. Fairies would do the honor to lead the way to the whimsical land of my dreams that I found hidden behind the blissful jars of my mother's sweet child. Then, on Sundays, she would whisper prayers while I wish to fly in stardusts so she'll never yell at me again for going home with scarred feet.
Mama boasts about how she raised me as pure but I am neither of the innocent nor demure ladies she was trying to shape. She predicted my footprints and found me wearing her pumps printed in glass glitters making herself the sole witness like she thought she always was. I remember my 13th birthday present of a fancy tiara that she fixed above my head like it was a diadem of a puppeteer.
The citizens by now often name it standards made of silver cave locks reeked in pieces of jewelry that blinded everyone. Pretty similar to the phrases she sang in churches when I was eight, maybe that's why I'm a teenager of the 'she used to be' mantras and 'why did she became' curses I have heard every day.
I suffer to wish for living in this age where the long-gone scars on my skin burn like I was the one to repent for the sins I did not commit. And I wish to wake up in a childhood siesta again so my prayers are all about fairies and sparkling tales. Not praise to a deity who fed me sunflowers at storms. Who lit fire to my darkroom only to dishevel the passion I loved for myself and not for the never-ending 'you should be's and do better litanies when she perceived my best as the worst of all.
But I'm not a rebel like what you have always told everybody, Mother. I'm just a numb and lost soul with paper thorns crumpled within my fists.
