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.