Lucks were never found in the body of a firstborn. They come in offbeat battles, sometimes in an exhausting long haul. At times, they get lost in a bickering world that keeps spinning. Round.. and round. Everything is either cold or intertwined, but never just right. At night they’re in a puzzle, deliberately thinking if the world accepts them as who they are or feels as weary as themself. Their mind often gets a little too loud; they wish they had a switch off button.
Firstborn always looked appealing. They had to. As though all eyes on them secretly wished for them to make it. The burden they bear on their shoulder since they were born. Sometimes it sticks, lingers, dominates. But they knew that they wouldn’t need to be healed. Because not in this world would ever understand them wholeheartedly. If the pain wants to stick around, then stay. Stick and stones may break their bones, but never their heart. Because they eventually found the strength to live with them, and one of these days, they don’t hurt so bad anymore.
It’s okay if nothing ever works out anymore, she said.
I wish I had the same courage as when I first started everything.
