A cut is always a gash to me.
A tear, an ocean.
A poem like this is frequently written.
Every ounce of emotion becomes another page of ink.
I write and I write until I can’t find anything left to gush over.
Then I pick up my pen and write some more.
My emotions get the best of me at a time when fun should be my priority.
Instead of pondering by dim light, I should be dancing by starlight.
Instead of dreaming of candlelit dinners, I should be having a picnic on the beach.
14 going on 40, they’d say, never had a childhood and never will.
I want to fall in love, I want to settle down, I want to grow old with someone like you.
But why can’t I enjoy my time getting there?
Why is it that my life has just begun, but I can’t wait for it to shatter to pieces?