sometimes at night, when all is quiet, i hear this little girl in her little corner stifling her own cries. sometimes i just want to reach over to help her, sometimes i just want to reach over to smother her... but deep down inside, there's this part that always wants to show her the sun, to let her see the beauty of the world, to just let her go, run free.

sometimes at night, when there is no sound, i hear this little girl in her little corner talk to the shadows on the wall. it could be of the trees, the window grills, her own. though it isn't the most pleasant sight in the middle of the night, it is nonetheless fascinating - what could've possibly brought about this behaviour?

sometimes at night, when nobody but the moon is watching, i hear this little girl thrash her belongings around: her clothes, her books, herself. it is times like these where i'm really afraid of her but i don't make a sound. i just let her release her rage, i cry for her before she settles down and return back to who she is. maybe she needed a getaway.

but one night she doesn't, and she finally steps out of the shadows - am i too late? - she steps out of the shadows and the first thing i notice is the tears of fury, shame, desolation, self-disgust and chagrin. they are red like fresh, molten lava, and it reeked of cowardice.

i reach out to her with an open hand but she spits on it - it burns, it burns and disintegrates whatever it hits, just like how self-denial and constant escapism erodes what defines you. i cry out loud and she nears me, the pungent odour of filth and lies slowly stealing the breath in my lungs. she holds my face in her hands; she narrows her eyes and stares at me, and a myriad, a cyclone, a century of broken fairytales fly by.

for a moment, it is silent like it has always been. she is still fuming but she isn't mad anymore. carefully, i take her hand in mine and hold her in my arms. i tell her things will be fine soon though we know nothing will ever be. she believes me, holds my hand, and slowly looks up, allowing a sliver of the moon's light fall upon her.

it is only then that i see who she really is.


what have i done?

---

i felt that this piece needed more publicity.
just a little autobiography.
can also be found on deviantart.