Little Thoughts

Burnt Orange

Tomorrow, April 25th, 2018, is my 18th birthday.

Forecast: high of 55, rain.

It will not be the day I want it to be.
It will not feel any different.

I will still be me, you will still be you.
The worms will be less deep in the ground, the air will smell of fluoride, chlorine, and dirt.

My body will look the same.
My eyes will be the same color.
My friends will be the same, and we will be doing the same things.

I will not feel any different.

Tomorrow I want happy; tonight I have suicidal thoughts.
Tomorrow I want pineapple upside down cake.
Tomorrow I want to feel actual love from my surroundings.

I want to soar through my thoughts and find my happiest thought and look and dissect everything about it.

My chest aches.
My bones feel like an old wooden chair.
My bed feels sad.

I'm sorry that I have yet to be mature enough to accept that birthdays aren't as good as they could be.
I'm sorry that I expect it to be "my day" in a sense.
I'm sorry life isn't all that it's supposed to be.