There’s a strange way of how they work.
The first cry.
The first steps.
Ah, the firsts.
Running in the streets with little or no clothes at all.
The echoes of footsteps still run through my mind sometimes.
But now it floods my heart with pain and suffering.
The memories of footsteps of my friends coming from behind and covering my eyes have been plagiarized.
Now all I remember are the hurried steps of mine in the dark alleys of the lost time.
Laughing unapologetically is not an option anymore.
But anyway, my happiness does not extend beyond a half an inch of a curve of my lips.
I want to.
Sometimes I shiver and scream,
And I all want is to hold hands and weep.
But the child inside just died.
And this adult here; trusts no one.
It doesn’t matter what I wear.
For one, I am not going the streets again.
They are now a battlefield and not a playground.
And two, whatever that I wear,
Doesn’t matter anymore.
I have been stripped off my dignity.
I’ll always feel naked.
I remember, running with open arms towards the footsteps when I was young.