i’m growing up.
i feel it when the scars of days past sink into my skin.
i see it when i look in the mirror, and my eyes are not as innocent.
i hear it in my voice, and i don’t recognize my words.
( or is it the other way around? )
it’s not all bad.
my relatives tell me i’ve gotten taller.
my family tells me i’ve gotten stronger.
my friends don’t tell me anything.
( is that a good thing? )
then why am i fighting it?
why am i so desperate to turn back the clock?
why am i so terrified of numbers greater than nineteen?
( i don’t know that i know why. )
do i want my independence day?
i’m scared of being alone.
[ i don’t recall when i wrote this, but it wasn’t recently. kinda want to sort this into ramblings because of how
dumb it sounds in my head.
i know i’m not alone, that there are others who think like this, but i think i’ve accepted it already [ like i said, written a while ago ]. i think i read somewhere that being young is not the same as being youthful. i’ll leave that for you to interpret for yourself. ]