Growing up never stops, an endless endeavor,
suffered by all but the ignorant – a curse upon
humanity; a blessing that will bring the end.
The young are unaware, but the jaded ones
know that youth doesn’t come twice.

    The days without pain are gone, I cry,
for now I see, and sight is to suffer –
to know that the blissful bubble of childish apathy
had dissipated without my notice; to miss it
when it is long gone. The plague of self-reflection
sets in shamelessly; I wish to no longer know myself.

    I am trapped in my own mind, and it isn’t
a place where I desire to pass the hours, nor is it
safe to dwell in. I do not eagerly anticipate
meeting with my secret self; I do not want to confront
things that I pray will disappear. It is simpler to pretend
that such things do not exist. I drown myself.

    My fingers reach out, and roses bloom from
my palms, all bright red and all velvet skin.
I hold them gently. I feel the pulse of life
underneath the beautiful bruises of
the inimitable. I am deliberate and discreet,
for vines twist and twine along my bare arms.
Thorns threaten; I am helpless.
My mind is the soil. I bury myself.

    Curse my cowardice! I fear becoming
what I already may be. This pining has perished
without acknowledgement, shelved away and
brushed behind cupboards, never to be seen.
If I could hold on a second longer, if I could
keep you close without shame – I reject
this without looking back. My mind
consumes me. I lose my self.