By Aditi Penumathca
I am the eldest child
And I have not been a kid
Since I was three years old
A brother was born, and I was told
That I now have responsibility
But I was just a child
And that nobody could see
“You cannot make mistakes” they said
For the younger ones would follow
“You have to be the best” they said
And I was left cold and hollow
A shell of my former self
She loved the world she had
That three-year-old child
She lived and laughed to no end
But soon all of that came to an end
For she was another reason for me
To show exactly what to be
A reason to be better, to do better
“And what if I fail?” I foolishly asked
“You can be married off then” they said
“For you are the daughter of the house
If you have no strive for success instead”
It was either a pawn or the queen
For me there was no in-between
A sister was born later
And I was happy as could be
But that happiness soon turned
Into unbearable melancholy
“You have to do better” they said to me
Not once a “good job!” or “it’s okay to fail”
But never held back from saying things
Like “how could you act so poorly?”
They were right though
For my brother to do good I have to be better
But for him to do good, mustn’t he try harder?
I had to do better to show him how
How could I carry that burden
When I too was just a child?
Do I not deserve what my siblings have?
Do I not deserve to dream?
To believe for once that I could be
Anything that I’ve dreamed to see?
And now, after all these years I lay undead
But they are still inside my head
“You used to be so bright” they said
But why couldn’t they say that
I was bright before
Now that shell of a child
Lives inside me no more
Yes, I’ve lived undead for long
But that shell was more loved than me
I have no purpose to them if I can’t be
The best at everything that I did except
Living as a collectable on a shelf
And now I’m left here questioning
If this life is worth living
Both now and then, no one believed
That I could be a child with a bright future
To them I am the eldest child
I withhold my family honour
I am but a slave to that name I hold
A picture-perfect doll, and soon
A trophy wife to uphold
Nothing but a pretty face and smile
No one ever asked me what was on my mind
I was a doll but then I cracked
When they couldn’t paint it, they threw me out
By Aditi Penumathca
Comments