originally written june 2025

at nineteen my reflection is laffy taffy pink, stretched to its limit and spun around a knife.

at nineteen my best friends live in a screen, and i press my face against the glass, calling my body a window-in-training.

at nineteen memorized songs decorate the floor of my mind like skyscrapers.

a city where lyrics sang the streets to sleep, the sky all postered walls and thick hair falling out in handfuls.

at nineteen i know love like i know myself, which is to say, i’m not sure i do.

at nineteen none of this really matters, though i still feel like it does.

i believe that since my peers have reached those fantasy adolescent milestones before me that it’s too late.

i’ll never look in the mirror and be honest and kind. because i’m not always honest and kind.

i can be terribly cruel to 

myself,

my peers,

my family.

at nineteen i hold sadness in my throat like a wad of gum,

too afraid to swallow,

fearing the rumored decade it will take to abandon my body.

at nineteen telling lies feels like security protocol.

i’m fine.

i’m not hungry.

i’m not lonely.

i don’t need you.

at nineteen everything i know about mental illness comes from social media.

at nineteen i feel like i’ve experienced everything i could ever understand and yet

at nineteen none of it feels like enough.

at nineteen i meet time in a dream.

time holds my hand and for a moment i see it.

i see myself in technicolor brilliance, full of light, deeply flawed, and yet happy.

at nineteen my reflection is drenched in what i assume to be a lifetime of hurt

but it is only the rain.

less than baptismal, but still holy.