Blowing Out the Candles

When I turned five, I wished for new Barbies.

So I could play pretend on the playground.

When I turned eight, I wished for new slime.

So I could make big slime bubbles with my friends.

When I turned ten, I wished for lipgloss.

So I could “be like the older girls.”

When I turned twelve, I wished for fancy leggings.

So I could fit in with the other kids.

When I turned thirteen, I wished for my friends to like me again.

So I wouldn’t be so lonely at lunch.

When I turned fourteen, I wished to change schools.

So I would never have to see them again.

When I turned fifteen, I wished to be five, or six, or seven,

or eight, or nine, or maybe even ten.

When I turned fifteen, I wished to be younger,

so my birthday wishes for Barbies and slime and lip gloss

blew out the candles instead.

I blew out the candles with my silent whispers of hope,

because maybe, just maybe, if I wished hard enough,

everything would go back to Barbies and slime and lip gloss