Room to Grow

You Know there is no return, and in ways you don't want one.

You have grown and it'd be an uncomfortable cramming of limbs bent at awkward angles,

bits of you overflowing.

But still you remember that feeling of fitting so, in that second before sleep,

you almost forget to be big.

You almost know how to shrink back down and sink back in.


Sink back into the days when the frozen top layer of snow could hold your weight,

you didn't fall through.

Sink back into the days you thought cities built golden staues of him,

that she really felt every smile.

Sink back into the days of unbridled laughter you thought would never run out.

Sink back into the days framed by the strips of sunlight seeping through your bedroom window.


But today, you walk on the ground.

You recognize faults and see through fake smiles.

You grasp at loose stands of joy drifting though the air, 

shove them in your pockets for a rainy day to later find they slipped through and unpatched hole.

You sleep with the blinds closed.


There is no room left for you in those days,

you cannot cram yourself back into that cozy photo album.

But, one day, you'll fill this new one you're living in too. 

But for now, the room to grow is cold.


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