a year full of life

every year feels something like this

it's hard to feel happy about turning one year older when every birthday feels exactly like this;

holding these tired eyes open
until the clock held twelve,
i never really feel any different
[it's hard to when i'm just as tired now
as i was yesterday]
a year passed by and now
i'm supposed to be happy[?] ,
suddenly forgetting the clouds of grief
held right above me[?]

[as if a day to celebrate
makes all the pain go away]

that would be nice;
to simply look up at the stars
held under a bright peach sky
and relish in the feeling of being older
[relish in the idea that soon
i'll be free to live all my dreams]
to look up at the sky that turns from
deep pinks to navy blues and blacks
and think,
maybe /this/ is what comfort feels like
[maybe /this/ can be the beginning
of starting my own little infinities]

but the days grow shorter
[and my brain grows sadder]
and i'm not sure birthdays
will ever quite mean the same
as they did once before,
no matter how hard i try for them to
[not when all of them
since stepping foot into adolescence
have felt like an existential spiraling,
each year worse than the last]

[why can't i mix a love potion to fall in love with myself and growing older again?
why can't they ever just feel like they did once before?]