I am not seventeen.
You see this
This shape, this physique
This skin, this mind?
They are false.
Not real.
Not when my soul, my bones
Scream Hurt, Pain, Sorrow
Proclaim Joy, Content, and Satisfaction.
Not when my whole being declares
I am old.
I am not old.
I am seventeen.
I have been protected
And taken care of.
And here is where
I’m confused.
Why?
Why is it that in this body
I feel the emotions of a lifetime?
Why is it that I can sit
And have a rush of feelings from memories,
Recording events I don’t remember occurring,
Swallow me?
Why am I crying with an old man’s regret
And smiling with a grandma’s content?
As if, as a teenager, I haven’t got enough feelings already.
My body rebels
Pushing me back and forth.
So I do not need this
This village of elders
Lending me their emotions but not their brains
Lending me their feelings but not the wisdom
Lending me their love, pain, disgust and anger.
Because I am tired
Of being sad
When there is nothing to be sad about.
For feeling sorry for myself
For Absolutely. No. Reason.
I don’t want to be angry.
I don’t want to be sad.
I don’t even know who I am anymore
Or how I feel about things.
All I know is that I’m bursting
With feelings that are not mine.
I am not old.
I am seventeen.
Won’t you elders leave me alone?