Elders

 

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?