The eyes which seek.

 

Look at those Mary Jane school shoes,polished to perfection they sit atop the shoestand you once used to not reach up to.It's only your last year of school,the last span of being in these shoes.Stepping out of them,nothing less than a ritual or rite of passage.
It's only half your size now,but there are so many rules.So many directives to follow for good.And the knowledge that there will always be someone capable of abusing their power over you,inside,you'll always be that six year old.
Nobody told you there could be a difference between the kinds of human touch,nobody gave you a prerogative of  you what those around you could be capable of.It was always a lonely front you lived through,a one-girl battle.
Now they draw parallels,sure set conventions to conform to. No conversations,only rules to live by,adhere to,always.
All these rules,because people will look at you.What are you doing,stupid girl,people will look at you..You look inappropriate..it's the worst thing a human can be,exceeds all ill-virtues,you know? They'll call you insolent and they'll call you an embarrassment.Because you're the eye and object of desire to society by virtue of being female,you're a lesser being.But being chauvinistic male is completely forgivable?
Do you even see the irony in the statement "Asking for unwanted attention" ?
No bones,no skin,no pulse,no hope,no love,no life.Only struggle,survival,walls,and veils and what next? shrouds,perhaps?
I know you want to protect me,save my dignity.But how viable is your approach,this insanity of  hiding behind layers of insecurity to avoid indignity.Is denying yourself a personality getting any closer to achieving a true sense of life and liberty?
Ruinous to our culture you say,liberty,yeah?  You'll call me disrespectful,but culture evolves.It grows and accepts,because diversity,permutations and combinations is nature's way of creating life,itself.Why shouldn't it be a basic human right to grow out into our personalities? I mean,in ground application,not just an inked statement set pretty on paper.
At sixteen,you were supposed to develop a friendship with me not a hostility.A nurturing,conducive environment instead of the cold cover to shelter my wisdom from branching out-what good is it to emotionally isolate me and then condone the evils of society? It's true that the world and it's ways would hurt me,and you were only trying stop it-but it's inevitable and in attempts of trying to stop it's force hurling at me,instead of uneasy acceptance,my thoughts got tainted before they transformed into ideals.

You were six,who's fault was it really? He knew exactly what he was doing,you were too naive.Your parents still haven't told you anything,and like to keep you naive.And then they feel most disrespected at the lack of closure,the truths you never tell them.
They tell you little bits now,all so useless,you wish you could tell them.You were six and it was a classroom.She was nine and it was the neighbourhood.Another was five and it was the confines of her home.
Where were they then? The morally self-righteous? The protectors of decadance,that claim to be doing their part? How did they leave you alone,isolate you emotionally?
So unapproachable,that you couldn't broach them with the truth of cruelty.
You knew,even at six,you knew,like you know now.Preccocious children.They would respond with disbelief,you would call it shock but it's ignorance,really.
They love you,but time doesn't permit them to,neither does the structure of society.You love them,unabashed,but they will never see the story inside you,the lines connecting the pain,a crumpled ball,doubled up in your chest.
 They won't be there,no,not when you tell someone for the first time,finally sharing the feeling of needles pulled out of your pin-cushion heart.No,even then they'll term you wild and rebellious,they'll never see the layers of pain that casted you out of social circles long before they should have existed.They will try to preserve dregs of your innocence as if they ever had a clue,clueless about the story echoing melancholy grown cold inside your mind,long before you know anything about anything.Trust propelled like string puppets,put up a show, hollow and dark.
Some day,just some day,you might stumble across your kind.And you'll let the pain flow,let in rain inside a closed room.And the bell curve will go up then,you might feel like more than a statistic,more than a nameless little girl.
You'll survive and fight the way you deserve to,the way you were never taught you could.The black Mary Janes will grow into skeletons in your closet,you'll wear them out...push them into oblivion,and you'll dare to dream of a world grassy enough to tread on barefoot.