I’ve been watching the world for a thousand years,
Yet I was only so recently born.
In three weeks, I will be fifteen,
Though I feel about one-hundred-and-seven.
Any day now, I will drop dead,
Ripe with age,
Sick from the cycling thoughts in my head that spin
Round and round.
All of the trinkets I have collected:
Worthless items like shoes and sweatshirts and graded papers
Come up in a yellow-pink pile of bile.
They wind up in the bowl, too.
The countless times where I have ridden in the backseat of my mother’s minivan
Driving over the mountain
Imagining my father behind the wheel, steering us through the hundreds of other cars
That look just like us,
That goes, too.
If only I could turn back the hands of time—
It’s a cliché, I’m aware—
I would take back the misused moments of perfection
Where we functioned like we weren’t broken,
Before this gaping hole sat in the fringe of my timeline.
In three weeks, I will be fifteen.
And I feel sick.