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something-something It's not as if they'd kill me.

something-something It's not as if they'd kill me. Of course not. I mean, I was really a mad thing to think that they'd ship me to Spain or somewhere and live off the riches. (As if I'm worth that much. I don't even speak espanol). I really used to think that when I was like 12 or 13. My brain's not working. It's sort of cold, you know, the breezy weather where your toes go stiff and shoulders shiver. It rained in the morning and noon. Made myself coffee that smelled ugly because I used the wrong milk. My brain's not working, I swear. And this backache. It is a forbidden ache that I must tell nobody about. I keep remembering that day when I fell down the stairs, somewhat like, four years ago. Oh and also, I'm forgetting the correct way to cry. I'm embarrassed about everything. So when I feel like bawling like a baby, I only kinda go cold as a rock and pretend that there's no use irrigating my face for godforsaken totem poles. I even do that with my parents (soft totem poles), you can ask them if you don't believe in me. They know when a cry is coming (squeaky voice trying its best to not sound like a leaky tap, talking casually with pointed finger guns and all that). But the worst part is that neither I nor they do anything to make it come out. But when it does, it's only two or three drops and a furious, hot face and done. Hah. That's where the snazzy jazzy razzmatazzy Generational Trauma comes in. They (especially my father) is a very competent bottle-upper. My mother too has only recently started venting, but I've seen her cry only in between long months. I love the way F's cheeks feel. Actually, I don't have much cheeks of my own, so I love to stretch my family's cheeks. Mumma's cheeks are nice to squeeze, and F's cheeks are nice to stretch. Papa's cheeks are both squeezy and stretchy and the sandpaper feature one way and the smoothness the other way--- oh dear dear dear. It's been so long since I stretched his cheeks. They're warm too. You know, when I was really little, like, six or seven, I used to sit on the top of the back of our bed, make him sit in front of a pillow against my knees and comb his hair with my fingers, and he clearly showed how he loved it. I miss that. I miss that so much. I hope I can learn things. I don't want to be one of those Commanding-Bastard-Mom-make-me-tea-Papa-give-me-money-I'm-going-out-I-don't-care-byebye children, but I'm becoming one. And I can't stop wardening my sister. I mean, I'm SO STERN and so mean that if I had a second me next to me, I'd wring her wrists nicely and whip her booty for THAT KIND OF CRUEL SATANIC behaviour. And although she's one little spoiled bwaybee, and she screams and cries at me all the time, I like her for when she clings to my legs. I can't help it. She was born so I could learn love. And bottling up. And practice suppression and putting myself below people I love. I talked to my old friends Saturday night. They seem nicer now. Oh, that's what distance does, no? I miss what I had. I miss being who I was. But not the whole of it. I realize I've been this thing after I was eight or so. But anyway, who knows what. People (I) say what they say. I want to not be yelled at. Or yell. For one day. Please. Oh and I want her to cling to my legs and twirl till my back breaks and my brain lumps like baby milkpowder in some cold fluid. Brrr. It's cold. I'm afraid. Like I always am.
something-something It's not as if they'd kill me. Of course not. I mean, I was really a mad thing to think that they'd ship me to Spain or somewhere and live off the riches. (As if I'm worth that much. I don't even speak espanol). I really used to think that when I was like 12 or 13. My brain's not working. It's sort of cold, you know, the breezy weather where your toes go stiff and shoulders shiver. It rained in the morning and noon. Made myself coffee that smelled ugly because I used the wrong milk. My brain's not working, I swear. And this backache. It is a forbidden ache that I must tell nobody about. I keep remembering that day when I fell down the stairs, somewhat like, four years ago. Oh and also, I'm forgetting the correct way to cry. I'm embarrassed about everything. So when I feel like bawling like a baby, I only kinda go cold as a rock and pretend that there's no use irrigating my face for godforsaken totem poles. I even do that with my parents (soft totem poles), you can ask them if you don't believe in me. They know when a cry is coming (squeaky voice trying its best to not sound like a leaky tap, talking casually with pointed finger guns and all that). But the worst part is that neither I nor they do anything to make it come out. But when it does, it's only two or three drops and a furious, hot face and done. Hah. That's where the snazzy jazzy razzmatazzy Generational Trauma comes in. They (especially my father) is a very competent bottle-upper. My mother too has only recently started venting, but I've seen her cry only in between long months. I love the way F's cheeks feel. Actually, I don't have much cheeks of my own, so I love to stretch my family's cheeks. Mumma's cheeks are nice to squeeze, and F's cheeks are nice to stretch. Papa's cheeks are both squeezy and stretchy and the sandpaper feature one way and the smoothness the other way--- oh dear dear dear. It's been so long since I stretched his cheeks. They're warm too. You know, when I was really little, like, six or seven, I used to sit on the top of the back of our bed, make him sit in front of a pillow against my knees and comb his hair with my fingers, and he clearly showed how he loved it. I miss that. I miss that so much. I hope I can learn things. I don't want to be one of those Commanding-Bastard-Mom-make-me-tea-Papa-give-me-money-I'm-going-out-I-don't-care-byebye children, but I'm becoming one. And I can't stop wardening my sister. I mean, I'm SO STERN and so mean that if I had a second me next to me, I'd wring her wrists nicely and whip her booty for THAT KIND OF CRUEL SATANIC behaviour. And although she's one little spoiled bwaybee, and she screams and cries at me all the time, I like her for when she clings to my legs. I can't help it. She was born so I could learn love. And bottling up. And practice suppression and putting myself below people I love. I talked to my old friends Saturday night. They seem nicer now. Oh, that's what distance does, no? I miss what I had. I miss being who I was. But not the whole of it. I realize I've been this thing after I was eight or so. But anyway, who knows what. People (I) say what they say. I want to not be yelled at. Or yell. For one day. Please. Oh and I want her to cling to my legs and twirl till my back breaks and my brain lumps like baby milkpowder in some cold fluid. Brrr. It's cold. I'm afraid. Like I always am.
ramonasingh5623

Ramona Singh

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