I have an old drawing of a
Blade in the back of my
Journal and a real one in the
Back of my dresser;
The one I haven’t told my therapist
About but it’s the one I think she
Knows of despite.
I have this old sadness in the back
Of my head and this dread
Stowed away in my heart;
The things I don’t bother to feel
But I know are still there because
It all hurts regardless.
I have an old soul,
Some tell me.
A 40-year old wine aunt
Or a grandma who acts like
She’s in her twenties.
And I think they’re right.
I think somewhere in me I am
Really old, and not just because I
Send people funny dog videos and
Crochet, and not just because I drink
Tea and can’t go a day without
Needing to read.
I think somewhere in me I’m old
Because being old was my only
Choice.
When I was nine; when I had no
Voice.
Somewhere in me I’m old
Because I write my T’s with a
Little curve at the end, but also
Because I felt I had no option
But to pop the pills from packets;
To hide those blades in my vanity.
I’m okay with being an old soul,
But I hate how it came to be.
I was always the mature one,
The one in school who was
Allowed to chew gum.
I was the mature one,
Even when I was so young.
People would praise me for
Being quiet, polite, respectful.
I would be showered in compliments
When I understood things right
Away; they found their places
In my heart where they still stay.
I guess I have old things:
Drawings,
Blades,
And a soul.
But it’s so hard,
Having these memories
That source all
My agonies.