this is everything i didn't say

one hundred nine

I don't want to cry on my 18th birthday but I think I'm going to

imagine that, on the cusp of adulthood and here I am losing it

it's stupid, really, but I think I'm just used to it

you know, the way things are there and then not there

the way I never know what it is that I want until someone tells me

the way I can't even send a simple invitation without

second guessing

worrying

crying

and I shouldn't be really, because there's nothing really wrong

it's just that my brain always tells me that there's going to be

and I think I'm too scared to not believe it

even though I would love to not believe it

because I hate the way trauma warps things

makes a simple task unrecognizable

makes all of this so hard

I'd like to run away from it all but also I'd like to run into the arms of anyone who will open them

and there's a bit of a problem with wanting both

I want things I'm scared to ask for but I'm also scared to have what I want

because if I have it there's no excuses

and I don't know what to do if some days I still feel like this anyway

I'll put words on a page but I think I've lost my touch now

the letters turned stale with disuse, the metaphors all withered

too much to make sense of

and too much to get tangled in

when nothing feels like safety

so instead I make the messes feel like home

eighteen // k.

a/n: this sucks