Writing

Hope always looks like 

something golden and beautiful and bright 

but Hope has just fallen 

her face streaked with dirt 

was it easy for you to love 

me? i’m not asking about the good days, i’m asking about 

the whole time period in which i 

was allowed in your life. 

was i easy to love? but please, 

I let myself cry

And it felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest

Exploding

Shattering into the sky

I felt like I was dying

Each day it gets easier

But when it catches up to you

I'm so old

I know I'm not really but

It feels like it.

Like I'm a teenager

For real this time

Like I'm normal

And my parents trust me

And I can text?

And I'm normal

I am speechless.

My thoughts don't make sense

and my voice struggles to come out and make a sound.

I am wordless

and I write but my cold fingers have forgotten the keys 

or how to hold a pen

A story you're told about once every year,

Details increase as you're judged old enough.

Then one year it stops, the story as sparse as it can be,