10 days ago I turned 18
I am an adult by legal means,
masterpieces written by people younger encapsulate what I wish to be.
Written for hunger and for greed and necessity,
And yet I feel decrepit, gray, and naive.
Will I bleed differently? Am I still me?
I haven’t cried, haven’t screamed since 17.
I have been awake more than asleep but it’s all felt a dream
I looked out the window into a spectacular beam,
the lightest light I’ve ever seen.
I recall being 14 and thinking I’d be done blinking by now
I’d be eyes open and bursting at the seams to leave, as I was then.
But anyhow:
10 days ago I turned 18,
In 10 days my best friend will too,
Neither of us feel cool
Nor calm nor collected
I just sit here in retrospective, 17 trips around the sun and not much to show
I awoke throwing up and bathed in a green glow the day I turned 18
What could that say about this year?
What can I write to embody such fear
Horror movies won’t suffice
I sat in a bath of ice because it hurts to cry when you’re cold
It’s best done in the warmth of the morning
When you’re determined and happy and bold.
I can no longer cry on my birthday,
As now, I am 18 years old.
