stuck.


I’ll always be 17 somewhere inside,
young and naive and looking for good
in things where it never existed.
There will always be that girl that yearns
for something more, greater, better.
The one that hungers to know that she holds your heart
even when you haven’t touched hers.

I’ll forever refer to myself in the context
of then and now, before and after,
when things changed
for 17 is when I died and came back,
not stronger, better or smarter,
just different, a different not visible to all eyes.

I am not hard to figure out,
with transparent skin thinly veiling me
and a drunken mouth spurting truthful words.

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