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. ∾
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eighteen
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