Accepting what I cannot

When you are sixteen

Sixteen years was the day where I turned twenty-one

Being an early bloomer spoiled the fun

Shaky hands indicate that there should not be weight on my bones

My breakfast is placebos and ice-cream cones

When you are sixteen, they tell you it will get better

And those same people pass and become a message through a feather

When you are sixteen you yell at your mom

What do you have to yell about now that she is gone?

I feel confused by the stray voices in the crowd

That told me I had made her so proud

When I was sixteen, I was a whole different type of cancer

And I make up for my guilt being a necromancer

Voices from three AM's nightmares stop by to say hello

Never as scary as being alone

I pour them a glass fully unaware

And I vent to whatever is there

And when their glass is still full, I know that it is her

Telling me nineteen is too young to be served

But three and a half years ago I turned twenty-one

So, I will drink while I am still young