Ode to Old Souls

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.