Somehow

She will manage it somehow.

That "somehow" is my heavy breathing.

It is these sweaty hands and sleepless nights.

It means I have to sacrifice all for its sake.

It means I have to persevere.

It means I have to stare at what I love most,

confused, wondering why I almost hate it now and then.

Why does it unleash a dozen bats in the cage of my ribs?

How come they want it to be a duty?

All of it that is. Nothing to keep to myself.

Sometimes, I amuse myself thinking about what might have allowed this.

Was it a smile or a nod?

I did what made them believe they could infer that I will somehow sort it out.

It is not a mere sign of trust, a judgement of competence or a feeling of assurance.

It is beyond that.

The remark lost its healthiness, its good nature and comforting support long ago.

Yet, I cannot say it is ill-natured. I do not think any malice lies behind it, no malice at all, but a resurrection of a bruise of which they know nothing.

I see it as an ageing man watching over me since birth.

Its appearance hovers around.

His eyes are the worst. They get hold of my body. Slowly, they tighten their grip until the cage crushes, and the bats die.

I do not mind people believing in me, not, now, not once I learned to do so myself. However, I'd rather hear them express it differently.

Words scar souls.