eighteen

i wrote this poem two weeks after i turned 18. i had a worse-than-average bday cry that day and kinda made the realisation that im not a kid n e more but i feel so young (n so old..,.,.). n e ways this is me trying 2 cope w that. it was weird being in college and 17... but now i wish i could b 17 4ever </3

Eighteen

The leaves unchaining themselves from the trees

Reach out for my cracked hand as they fall.

Two weeks out from 18 and I am letting myself be softly surprised.

I cover my ears from the crying wind

And I hush myself when the excitement of it all escapes my lips.

I do not want to spoil it yet.

Unwrapping my scarf like crumpled paper, I pause.

Just to take in my fragility.

I unsheath my fingers from my gloves

And draw blood from my paling skin,

As red as the fiery leaves I trampled on my way

And I consider this pain their revenge.

I hold my melancholy between my teeth

And I wonder if the trees have ever felt this loneliness,

If they understand what they’re losing as they let it go.

Two weeks out from 18 and I am letting myself remember,

Remember how young I felt and how old I felt,

Remember that I have crossed my T’s the same way all my life.

I sigh my breath out onto the canvas of the horizon,

Staining it with each awkward heave,

The unsure legs of the fawn meet the ancient earth below.

And I say a prayer in my head

For everyone who stood in the same ground as I do

And never once thought about how they were changing it

With each step, every stone, every hole, and every flower planted

Until they, too, would be a part of it, and, in return,

Make it a part of themselves forever.

∾