nothing's changed since seventeen
except my number of days clean.
interpret that any way you like,
i can't tell the difference between a blade and a knife.
basements trigger dopamine
that's why they call it "sweet sixteen"
bony fingers in my hair
silent tears enhanced the glare
i was younger for my grade
at fifteen, i wanted to age.
i wanted to be eighteen too
i wanted to be just like you.
i don't remember getting older
but fourteen made me so much bolder
i loved to look at someone else
and spend less time dreading myself
what was thirteen, if not pain?
it's nothing i could still explain
it's just the scrape on my left knee,
and the june in which they set us free.
someone has my twelve year old body
and i hope they're fucking sorry.
it's not my fault, as i clear the screen
it's not your fault, as you hold me.
YOU ARE READING
Everything left to complain about (stopped) (go read my other poem book)
PoetryPoems and strings of words that don't qualify as poems, from all four years of high school until the summer after freshman year of college. My recent works and anything I continue to write can be found in my new poem book, "Open your hands and say s...
