Spilled Popsicle

 

At sixteen, I got my first golden ring,

The reality of my situation was enough to tap onto the outer providence of my brain.

It never occurred to me that I was growing up.

Being the eldest required the excuse of having the most responsibility.

Lazy guardians brokered the idea that nothing was ever flawed in the older teachings catering to how to raise your child.

Impostors suddenly came into my world and implanted themselves among the rooted and conveyed their importance with false promises.

 

Winter came and left without a fight, pouring into the sunlight and mixed feelings.

A teenage dream isn't the experience Boy meets world  claimed to be.

My childhood ended when I stopped being upset over the popsicle that I spilled on the ground,

It ended when I stopped having time for my imaginary relationships between my barbies and cleaned the house instead.

 

When I was seven I had a tire swing in the front yard, I didn't know about the problems between my parents or the hatred my mother held for my grandparents.

The most realistic part, was when my mom decided she wouldn't be a mother to two out of three of her children.

That was the moment I stopped missing being a child.

I wanted to give into the resources of the outside world, drown in something other than my depression medications.

 

Birdwatching still holds no appeal to me, maybe there is hope for me yet.

Small blessings catered me along the way, smitten with the curves of adult life.

Old in my knowledge, but young in my hope.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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