I Hate Birthdays

This is a really cringy poem I wrote late at night, sorry about that :,).

Today I am 5,478 days old, which is 782 weeks or 180 months, making me exactly 15 years old. Everyone is celebrating. Fireworks, balloons, cake, so much excitement. It feels like the perfect birthday, what else could I ask for? As a kid, I craved the attention and sugar rush that comes with it. It feels so right yet I can't help feeling wrong. It all seems pointless.  Fourteen candles on a birthday cake. "Why's everyone so happy?" I think confused. But I never say it out loud, never ask. Why should I ruin their fun with my sorrow? So I never speak up, never let them know, yet I still wonder. "Why is everyone pretending like this is okay?" Once you grow up, birthdays come with frosted smiles and a melancholic gaze. The candles burn down to their wicks, fourteen dying flames and my childhood catches fire in the embers. But they go on, pretending like it is okay, pretending we won't miss the innocence hiding in the ashes. Pretending we won't miss the first childhood crush or the illusion of a world so small as your child-sized shoes.

 We leave the place we grew up in and forget the people we love. We age and we don't talk about the overwhelming feelings that come with it. We're expected to make something out of ourselves but we haven't even learned who we are yet. Time is slow and full of nostalgia. So I wonder one last time. "Why am I pretending like this is okay?" We leave our youth behind, hidden in a box somewhere in the corner of an attic. This is all that can be saved from the wreckage. We lock our childhood away in cages and pretend like we're not scared of the inevitable curse that is growing up. I don't remember most of my childhood. I wonder if those small moments of memories I have are real or some fake creation constructed by my brain for self-comfort. My 122-641th day on this planet could be magical or it could be the worst day of my life. Is it worth sticking around long enough to find out? The clock chimes two. "Make a wish", they say. So I do. I blow out my candles, wishing to bury the child left in me. Nothing has really changed and I am still them, but it all feels like a goodbye. I feel like the younger me would be disappointed in what I've become. 

                                       I hate birthdays.