20
i hold my youth, like a broken necklace, between the tips of my
calloused fingers;
picking at wounds that have not yet healed
but that age will cover.
and somewhere near the depths of my hidden city the tree that i planted
at four is still blooming and entwining between my lungs
forcing life into them;
i've always had roots sprout around my ankles, tying me deep into my home.
home;
my journals and my second-hand books engraved with the
words that a once scrawny mind only craved to understand.
that same hand that used to turn pages is now writing them.
and , yes, Melodrama has always been my thing,
once you learn that your tears are also water you’ll do anything
to not thirst over your wretched memories of how the sun
would be warmer when you were young,
or how the strawberries in that one summer would taste different
and how they will never be the same again.
i hold my youth, like a broken necklace, between the tips of my
calloused fingers
but still, I’ll wrap it around my neck and look in the mirror.