The Geometry of a Teen

I woke up and the bedsheets felt like a trap instead of a cocoon. The posters on my wall - the ones of the superheroes with the bright capes and the glowing eyes - looked childish and peeling, like they belonged to a stranger I’d outgrown overnight. My voice, when I tried to hum a song, cracked in the middle, a strange and jagged sound that didn't fit the person I was yesterday.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and looked for the kid who used to make faces at her reflection. She wasn't there. Instead, my face looked longer, my limbs felt like they’d been stretched out by a ghost and my skin was suddenly a map of spots and shadows I hadn't asked for. The toothbrush sat in the holder next to a bottle of face wash and a stick of deodorant; the tools of a new, boring ritual that felt like the beginning of a long goodbye to the playground.

When I walked into the kitchen, the cereal didn't taste like Saturday mornings anymore; it just tasted like sugar. My mom looked at me and didn't call me by the nickname that used to make me feel safe. She just asked if I’d finished my homework, her eyes scanning me like I was a problem that needed solving. I realized then that the world wasn't going to carry me anymore - I was expected to walk through it and I had no idea where I was going.