The rusty red,
The blue plastic.
I would travel through time here,
Running away from the "trauma of living."
That fantastical luxury has escaped,
Age accompanying maturity,More freckles across my nose with each passing summer.
Days of youth are quickly dwindling away,
As the realization of sixteen attacks my tender mind.
Reality hits:
Driving cars,Smoking Black and Milds at carnivals,
My closest friends abandoning me for
Better places,
Bigger plans,
The things I know slipping
Just
Out Of reach.
Now, the "trauma of living" is being questioned,
New perspectives shining light on my selfishness.
My childhood was dreadfully normal,
Stuck in suburbia,
But is that as traumatizing as real pain,
Real conflict,
Real trauma?
It could've been worse.
Much worse.
But at least then something would've happened.
It's late,
And reflection on the past will hinder sleep tonight.
So I'll think of a boy,
And of Muriel's Wedding,
And of getting the hell out of upstate New York,
But mostly about the boy.
Cocoa butter will disguise the scars,
But I'll still feel them inside my chest
Every time I take a breath.
But it's okay,
Because this is life,
Filled with Teen Mom
And Chuck Palahniuk,And brownie mix,
And no matter how slow I run,
It'll always be waiting for me at the finish line.
-Emily Ann
