Youth in Scraping Sunsets

I built castles in the air and every once in a while, I would flap my wings to visit. It had sort of things a child wished to acquire. There was freedom, and I could be as reckless as I wanted to be without hearing an earful later on. My hands were not tied to some problems of the adults around me thus, I did not need to act tough. When it hurt, I would bawl my eyes out for a couple of minutes, and it was not being a crybaby. I would have stayed in this little space my head occupied, if only my young age was an enough reason to not grow up immediately.

My mother loved dressing me up. Even father at times would hold a comb to put my hair in various styles. Nonetheless, memory blurs. To grow up is to be constantly bombarded with questions, were you happy as a kid? and the answer will be, I guess. The truth is, I cannot recall it clearly anymore. However, I remember being five and joining a school pageant for daycare students where I proudly announced that someday, I would be a model. And I was suddenly seven, I was not to be fragile. It was cruel. I thought. How cruel. I stopped celebrating birthdays then fisted my spine to fit. Tell me, how tiny do I have to be? Where should I place this loneliness other than let it swell from the back of my throat?

For so long, I wondered what it actually meant to be a daughter. I got to figure it out now, aside from being born into violence, it is also to be a reflection of my mother. Of her silent fears and misery. It resonates within my whole being: “This grief knows your name as well as mine. It howls, and haunts, and whispers, I am what you cannot outgrow.” As if a mantra. We are no different from each other yet I want the world in my hands, she simply wants to be part of it. My body feels like a cathedral of rage, of everything she does not find pleasing about her body. Often my skin itches and I have scratched it to such extent of wishing I could be made clean again. You see, I fear I have grown terrible at offering kindness to myself. I was not taught to be gentle, anyway.

I am on my own, I always have been. I do not hope to be pitied. I am so much smaller than life but I utter, look, I am here. I raised myself. I raised me. I do not have anything to offer but my words. Each time I write, I tear a bone to be louder. Here I am alive, I have survived. Although, I cannot find the right sentences to make sense sometimes, I seek to be understood. I pin rainbows in paperbacks and press my weight on the pages I bared my vulnerabilities. I am made of flesh and aching bones. I am my different types of longings. I wander and dream still, albeit far from being childlike. Do you now see riot in these bruises?

Alice

_{I used to stumble upon dreams where I was floating as a child, it went higher and higher—the world seemed tinier in my eyes. There were several nights I would have a similar dream when I started to be older, the only difference was the fall that occurred shortly afterwards. It happened so often I no longer remember how I actually felt. One time, I noticed a small crack that made everything crumble and I sank. I never ceased slipping until then.}

_{Hello! I go by the name Alice, under the username @lienric. A graduating senior high school student. I am from Laguna, Philippines. I enjoy doing a lot of things although, I am far from being considered as consistent. Yet I know that we are just trying to survive, and my pets are here to keep me alive. I write when all there is for me to tolerate becomes unbearable, or on some days I think I am a giant with hands I do not recognize.}

_{Lots of thanks to @tpkidkai and @rks.wuhdrelis. I am glad to be part of this platform. Photo retrieved from on Instagram. Nice to meet you.}