the slow art of breathing bitter

Better Late Than Never

When I was seven, a pale pink girl—

Mummy said to go out and play 

in the June shine, make little friends, and have some fun.

There was always a 'but' in our conversations.

"But make sure you don't get too much into them."

Your mind was too packed with thoughts about exposing 'too' much.

When I was said to wear baggy shirts and trousers,

A 'but' slipped from my mouth into her ears:

"But they are too big to wear!"

The time when I wrote my first poem

and read it aloud to you at midnight—

Your brows furrowed, you snorted:

"But you should focus more on studies, Darlin'

Writing won't help enough; it's just an escape from reality."

And there have been many days and many times,

When you dumped my wishes and stamped yours upon them:

A red mark of 'your' wishes, 'your' rules.

To you, I was a computer:

You'd give me instructions, and I'd have to follow them without whining.

To you, I needed to be the perfect kid:

No parties, no lovers, no passions—

Just a straight aim to run after to earn money.

You were like an overwhelming explosion upon my chest.

I had never wanted to be perfect. 

I had never wanted to be great.

I had always wanted to be ordinary—

to be just me, of who I was.

But here I am, sitting on the leather chair,

tapping away my phone: rescheduling my meeting.

I'm the Executive Officer of a company now.

I touched fame but not for myself.

I succeded but not the way I wanted to.

I am earning money but not how I wished for it.

It was all in your desire; it was all planned according to you;

All the time, it has been you who was the puppeteer,

Tying strings on my wrists and moving me like a puppet.

And there's never been room for me.

I was always a shadow trembling upon the wall—

Like a ray of sunshine trying to penetrate through the thick December snow.

This me is not me now.

It's a paranoid puppet you played with, Mummy.

It's the puppet that agreed to all your 'but's.

And we end here with a spill of blood

and a single burn on my face.

None of your 'but's will work now.

And I know it's too late to say:

But better late than never

Trying to end with another crucial 'but'.

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A/N: A book I was binge-reading inspired me to scribble this whole thing. Most parents tend to put this overwhelming pressure on their children nowadays to be perfect, genius, or outstanding. What if we are satisfied being ordinary? What if we don't want to be perfect the way they want us to be and be ourselves, just like the way we have been created?