#childhoodreflections
Classroom is never soundproof,
Birth place of mockery ,joke and painful loop.
Imperfections never ask for proof,
Judgemental society grows up under the same classroom roof .
Cleaned floor ,bright light , so many numbers of door where shaky breath take a fight
Germs invade the golden hearts
Teachers overlook,
Plea for justice were forever unheard .
Fat they say
"Too much ..round pumpkin"
Every whispers slices through baby silk skin.
Shadow of pumpkin rolled around every snicker,
Losing own body in point of every laser lens,
It hides under every back bench.
Shrinking myself ,magic wand failed to make me thinner
Perfect dolls became the winner .
Accusation sounds like a big crime,
I forgot my own rhyme.
Round rolling pumpkin ,
Erased name whispered though silent scream .
Time passes nothing change
Learning store became a cage made of unread page .
Shiny stars grows up as bold clouds in free sky,
Heart becomes quite labelled as shy.
Little dough become the demanding dish of bakery,
Small pointer finger takes
place of loud mockery.
"Body shaming who are you to blame?"
"Lets us live within our own body and name."
Some wounds still stings,
Shameful name is so unwanted to claim
Colorful childhood fades into painful memories by every mocking nickname.
Mar 16
Mar 16, 2026 at 9:10 AM UTC
There’s a space I remember,
between what I saw and what I was told.
A room with no doors,
only windows I couldn’t open.
I learned to speak in half-truths,
to nod when I didn’t understand,
to carry the weight of voices
that weren’t mine.
Time passed like dust in sunlight—
soft, blinding, impossible to hold.
And yet I moved through it,
learning that even when the air is heavy,
a breath is still a victory.
Somewhere in that room,
I left pieces of myself,
tiny fragments of courage
waiting to be found again.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 3:21 PM UTC
We only spoke through voices,
distance humming through the line,
but sometimes you don’t need to see someone
to recognise a familiar silence.
I could hear it in the pauses,
in the careful way the words were chosen,
like every sentence had already been checked
before it was allowed to breathe.
Children learn that skill early
in houses where storms live.
Which truths are safe to say.
Which ones must stay buried
somewhere behind the ribs.
I know that language.
I was once a child
who heard half the story
and carried twice the weight.
The quiet conversations behind doors,
the names whispered with tension,
the strange feeling of understanding
things no one ever explained.
And somehow the pieces children are given
are never the ones that make sense.
Sometimes the story changes
depending on who is telling it.
Sometimes the truth gets bent
so the people holding it
don’t have to look too closely at themselves.
Children don’t question that.
They just hold the pieces they’re given
and try to make a world out of them.
But the heart notices things
long before the mind understands them.
That quiet confusion.
That heavy feeling
that something doesn’t quite fit.
I remember carrying that too.
What I know now
that I didn’t know then
is something simple but powerful—
Children are not responsible
for the storms around them.
They are only the ones
learning how to stand
while the thunder rolls overhead.
And sometimes, years later,
when the world grows quieter,
the truth slowly finds its way
through the cracks of old stories.
When it does,
it changes everything.
But it also reveals something else—
The child who survived it
was always stronger
than they were ever told.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 3:13 PM UTC