Righting our parents’ wrongs is very hard,
And fixing broken minds can be even harder.
Maybe we should try harder to fix our behavior.
Cause our behavior can harm more than it helps.
Our impact is always affected by our intent,
And we must always try to be kind.

i don’t flinch as hard when i catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror anymore,
i cant help but smile at good things and like the person i see, her face different.
and though i am not skinnier, i am happier, and my hair is longer, fuller, wavy.
i spend precious time combing my fingers through it, adorning it,
with creams and oils, and nice smelling liquids, making sure i fix my bangs.
i put on my clothes, baggy jeans, worn and slightly torn, with a shirt that’s tried and true,
while i put blush on the apples of my cheeks, smiling so they puff up,
and i stare into my eyes, while i apply concealer underneath them, trying my best to look soft,
curling my lashes so they fan up and outwards, tickling my eyelids when i look up,
sweeping on a light layer of mascara, best suited for my eyelashes, strong and enduring,
while finally, i tint my lips with a gloss that was clear but stained pink eventually,
changed but still pretty, still usuable, still desired, still wanted.
later, i wash my face, wipe on toner with a cotton pad, and moisturise, though
sometimes i forget, and occasionally, i break out, pimples erupting,
and for a moment, im 14 again, with a forehead of acne, a hatred for the world,
and for herself, the way she looks, the way her mouth moves, the way her arms flail
awkwardly, all over the place, uncoordinated, while everyone marches on, foot in front of the other.
but i stop, i smile, and i wash my face, wipe on toner with a cotton pad, and moisturise,
my hair dripping wet with conditioner, curl mousse and hair oil, detangled with gentle fingers.
i look in the mirror, and for once i don’t flinch. my lips turn up slightly, and i smile.

I make them smile,
not for ease,
nor for the brief bloom of laughter—
but because the world is a weight,
and lightness must be carved
by hands willing to bear the chisel.

I have seen sorrow move like a tide,
dragging its wreckage ashore,
leaving eyes hollow, shoulders bent,
hearts shaped like doors
that open to emptiness.

I have watched the weary—
not dying, but unlit,
not grieving, but undone—
souls curled inward like autumn leaves
that never learned the grace of falling.

So I place joy like a candle
in the cavern of the ribcage,
let it flicker against damp walls of doubt,
let it whisper—however briefly—
that there is still warmth, still wonder,
still a reason to lift the chin
toward the sky and call it home.

A smile is not salvation,
but it is rebellion—
against the hush of despair,
against time’s indifference,
against the notion
that we are meant to suffer in silence.

Let them call me foolish—
say laughter is fleeting,
that joy is a trick of the light.
I will still shape it, scatter it,
send it forth like a dandelion seed
that does not care
where the wind takes it—
only that it was given,
only that it was free.

The first time I met them,
I was met with silence;
These who did not speak.
They were unfamiliar with communication.
They were silent, but pondering beasts.
They looked up to me
With eyes full of fear.
Such beautiful innocence
When you lashed out at me,
For you were only trying to protect yourself
At what you perceived as dangerous.
But I placed my hand on your shoulder,
I rested my head against yours.
In your confusion,
I embraced you.

It is a fair assumption
To believe that truth is habitually withheld,
In the daily routine of "inconsequential,
Miniscule" white lies.
As in larger defeats
Where the sting of humility or embarrassment linger,
In plans gone awry.
To understand this is not to condone this,
But never to engage in it.
To do so any different
Would only prove otherwise.