I was seventeen, but my heart felt like it was fifty seven, beating far too fast, and far too languidly all within a breath.

I was seventeen, but the painted nails spoke that I was sixty seven. the pigmented dyes stained my keratin, to cover the fragility of a breaking body.

It was noticeable to see how weathered I was.

I was seventeen, and the darkened circles and protruding bags beneath my eyes were a clear indicator of staring into the event horizon, threatened by the pounding and buildup of years of torment corked tightly in me.

But I think people forgot I was seventeen.

sometimes I am seven, sometimes I am thirty seven. I am whatever age would fit their case the most, and I play the foolish seven something to satiate their salivations.

Anow I no longer know which seven I am, all I know is that I once was seventeen.