She asks: Where will your youth go?

I say: I don't know,

I say: Thank you,

for adding one more question

to the thousands

I'll have tonight

I ask with the void of anger:

Where did yours go?

I say: I don't know,

again, to myself

or I say nothing....

nothing at all

and I let the question dive into the depth of forgetness.

I think about my future instead,

of how it must be better than this

but of how I will surely miss these times,

these times of teen angst and heart ache,

of upcoming tears,

and then I will look back with detest at my younger self.

I think again of how I will be happy and alone to do whatever I want.

She says: You are afraid of people

And I scroff,

I hold my nose high,

I don't nod,

I don't say anything in return,

I don't say that

no, I am not afraid of them,

but how can I explain that there are days I am too ashamed to go outside.

I think of what she might think of me:

a burden,

a selfish being,

a sinking rock

and I put the earphones on

to stop the words coming.

She says: When I am gone

you will be sorry.

And I want to laugh,

but I don't

I can't.

I try to say

I will be,

I am now.

I try to speak but I am only thinking of how it would be better for me

if I am to go first.

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//May 2017//