All that I'd despicably known / Things I wish I didn't know–
That my childhood would be a prelude
to the calamitous chronicles 
of this adulthood.
That the then enticing eagerness to grow up
would become today, one nonchalant noose
around my adult self.
That the melodies my younger self mindlessly hummed
and cavorted about, would become so hard to even 
call to mind as I manoeuvred through life.
That the embers of curiosity 
once coruscating through my mind
would be extinguished by the everlasting
bouts of over-scrutinising.
That the heart that used to pulsate
a few beats harder in wonderment of the world
would become hardened to the ways of that very world.
That my favourite person who breathes at the core
of all my tenderest tales of life, would become
a stranger one day with the bitterest aftertaste
in my mind.
That the opportunity I spend my whole life looking for,
would knock upon my threshold as if a trouvaille
in the middle of some random day–
only to slip off my fingers, 
emulating the classic trope of "almost"
from movies and novels.
That I'd inevitably become a daughter
drinking from my mother's fountain of sorrow,
onboarding the selfsame passengers of pain,
putting upon pedestals the parasites that have
only known to dine on the dainty life I hold.
That grief would always find its way to me,
even in moments of grave bliss, even midst
bustling crowds, even in the arms– 
of my loved ones, even when the light 
at the end of the tunnel seemed 
unblemished and brilliant. 
That to be able to crusade against the travails
of the world outside, would require me to cease
being at a war with my insides.
That the unloved, crestfallen whiff of the little girl
from my childhood would still tantalisingly,
wheeze out her dearth of tenderness 
in my instances of lovingness,
leaving them marred. 
That all the love every thread of my being retained,
after being poured into the heart of a wrong person,
would render me incapacitated of loving–a terrible
lover, is all I must have become now.
That all the wrong trains do not end up at right stations,
for here I am–pursuing pursuits yet to make sense
to myself, chasing chaos in the name of having purposes, 
checking myself in at starting points
only with no finishing lines in sight. 
That the fairytales I grew up reading
before my stubborn eyne gave in to sweet slumber
would grow edges like knives becoming anecdotes
of detestable realities that keep rewinding behind
the same eyes leaving me now sleepless.
That the girl who only walked
holding her father's pinky, would become a woman
dragging her way through her life with fists clenched.
That loving myself is something
I needed to learn everyday for the world
makes me abominate my own skin every other day. 
That my words would fail me,
as mortals become unkind, and life–
a running radio of grating malice, and as 
I write this unending list of all that I'd despicably known.

Tabassum Hasnat is a Bangladeshi freelance content and creative writer of short form fictitious genres. Aside from having her own personal blog on the global platform of Storymirror Pvt Ltd, she has co authored multiple anthologies and book compilations that have been published on Amazon, Kindle, Google books, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, and Notion Press.