Fainting Goat

The backyard of my childhood home held the old pine trees that had whispered melodies in my ears throughout my sweet infancy. Their wise branches reached out to me with empathetic arms, holding me until I had fallen seamlessly asleep.

Dear YWP, 

The first time I wrote you a letter I was 13. 

The second, 15. 

I'm 18 now; how time flies, my lovely people. 

And this is the last letter. 

If it weren't for the sky, I’m not sure where we’d be. 

The sky can never be us, we are not the passing clouds, but 

It’s that feeling

Of awkwardness

Of excitement

Of twenty million things on the tip of your tongue

Of so many words that will never be said.

My name is Amelia.  

I am 17 years old 

And I am afraid for my future. 

I am tired of old men 

Deciding how I will live,  

Determining the world in which 

She's finally ahead in the presidential race. The way my hope lifted when I heard that news. And the disbelief on my face? How, after ten months? I was sure I was going to be screaming from my porch on election day, "Why, why?