My Calendar Must be Wrong

It's October,
says my calendar,
but I'm not so easily convinced, even though
my cherry tomatoes tasted like pumpkins tonight
& I'm struggling to explain why.

It's October, and apparently almost my sixteenth birthday,
but I still feel like the eleven-year-old who has just
discovered music; the sound of that guitar being strummed
can transport me to another world.

It's October and I am not truly eleven -
something that becomes clearer every time I peek at the 
mirror and notice the curves of my body. They feel so
uncovered; seen by strangers whenever I go out.

It's October,
and I am still eleven. 
I need to feel eleven, can't you understand?
Growing up is too difficult, even for Capability Dodds, something
I have learned through the nightly tears springing out of my eyes
like the crocuses that shoot through crisp spring snow.

It's October, but I don't believe it.