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Sick and Waiting

It is painfully frustrating,the wait.
The ticking of a clock, I swear the old thing is winding down.
How many days until the magic number?
The key to liberation?
How many weeks until I have a voice?
How many month until I am a being whose words are not swatted away like flies?
It never seems to end,
the waiting.
I don't ask much,
just safety.
For the shadows to hold still.
For the voices in my head to hold their breath,
to tell the story of my ill.
I only ask to not be afraid,
to be able to understand,
to let the secrets in my chest taste the open air,
but for now I am silent.
Hiding behind my colorfully died hair,
waiting for the magic number to tick down on the clock,
Oh god,
18 will be my liberator.
All that's left is the wait.



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