When I was six I caught pieces of sunlight, and used them to mend her tattered soul. She gifted me with knowledge of what life would be like, if lived with all honesties.
When I was seven I broke treaties and snuck downstairs when the darkness came, I saw shapes dance across the walls of her bedroom and choked back all of my sobs.
At eight, I saw seven eat nine and cried until I ran out of fears. I found a place deep in the Midwest wood where I stored my screams, at the base of a gigantic oak tree.
At the tender age of ten I could dim the moonbeams that fell through my torn curtains, I slept in a nest constructed of wolf like pillows. I filled jars of fireflies and placed them at the foot of my twin bed. So the monsters that lurked would have to face their own reflection before crawling into my sheets.
Eleven found me cuddled in the corner of womanhood, bleeding through hand-me-down memories, I wore pastel pink sweaters with lockets containing grown up shame. I pocketed daydreams to unfold sanitary napkins in bathroom stalls.
Twelve gave me nightmares in the middle of the day, we spent afternoons sneaking peaks of public library women’s magazine reads; big bold letters on how to make him love you! Forever! Lunchroom lessons on how to kiss my own hand.
Thirteen was unreal, I was never sure how to feel. Always accused of feeling too much. I built a house in my head and stored my heart in a locked box.
Sweet sixteen was all but gold, I looked forward to looking back on it all, and my new daydreams were this tall! I couldn’t keep my head above the high tide, and wasn’t sure if I could commit to the ride.
I missed being new.
When I was new I was the perfect place to start.
When I was new I was barely a whisper, but everyone heard my little heart thump against the back wall of my chest.
When I was new I could see through all of you.