Whenever I catch myself weeping wearily of the good ol’ past, I tell myself that I have reason to: This moping about sweet childhood days usually occurs during the weeks of rigorous, hellish end of year examinations.
But today, I’ll look at childhood in a different light.
The claws of childhood sink deep
into the flesh of my arm, like pincers
of a red crab I once saw on the shores when I was six, seven,
unwilling to let go of my arm. The bitterness of childhood days
seeps into the solid resolve I had built up; it dilutes the sweetness of celebrating
I am catapulted into the past once again-
the prickling sensation of the past creeping up on me,
delving into my being like a shimmering second skin, blatantly
and so cognizantly forcing itself into me. The feeling is akin to that
of the time when I was two and had lost my first two front-teeth;
single-negatives : the pain of losing them, the blossoming happiness symbolizing
now I just cry in double-negatives, carrying both the pain
in my shoulders,
the pain in my head,
the painful bite of growing up
hurting more than it ever did.
Poem written in response to the Daily Post’s Prompt