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Vials

Prompt: The day you realized that your parents aren’t superheroes.

 

The first thing my parents would do after waking up everyday
was to shut the vials of emotions with a cork.
And they would cross-check it,
equal to the number of times
they would have chai.

Thrice.

Sometimes more on bad days.

Little did they know that vials are made up of glass
and
glasses
break.

So, in anxiety one day when my mother pressed the cork
a little to hard;
The emotions came flooding out
like rays of light through rain cladded clouds.

My father?
No, his vials had a lining of patriarchy
that made it more durable.
His vials had oceans of emotions.
A river came pouring in with
every tear drop that never got out.
And on some nights the oceans would sway,
failing to keep a wreckage at bay.
But the most damage they could do,
was let out a thin stream rolling down his cheek
on cozy nights when no one was watching.

See, I was led to believe that my parents are superheroes.
And that they are right. Always.

See, my parents were led to believe that I am to be protected.
And that the vials are meant to be shut.

But they are wrong, sometimes.
I never needed saviours, ever.

They are just humans.
And that’s enough.

Anonymous

Today’s Prompt: To all the poor ugly folks who know that they will never be anyone’s first preference. To all the broken lonely souls who are locked deep in the chamber of insignificance. To all those who remain a shade in the shadow; its not the starlight that’s not reaching you but its the heart that’s refusing to shine!

I am the side kick.
The second favourite child.
The shirt you settled for.
I am the insignificant one.
The “others” that you refer to?
That’s me.
Hell, I am not even the face of “others”.
I am the faceless.
I am the one who has no name.
And no, that, by the way, doesn’t make me precious snowflake.
I am the snowflake that tripped and fell while coming down the stairs.
I am broken.
But I mended myself.
But the cracks are visible.
Like white stitches on black trousers.
And I was told that it makes me special.
It doesn’t.
There are far too many broken souls out there who are waiting
with their hearts open with glowing signs at the door that spells “Waiting Room”.
And last time I checked, no one gives a fuck about glowing signs on a highway.
I am not complaining that the light isn’t shining on me.
It is.
But I am at the brink of the spotlight.
Visible, but not enough.
There’s light inside, yes.
And that’s what keeps me going.
But I am never going to be visible.
Even if I make a body transformation.
Get blue eyes.
Increase my biceps’ size.
Because the light just brightens up my hallways.
And everyday, it’s a party.
But it doesn’t go out.
And how will it?

I have painted the windows black.

 

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