18

in two years' time i will be eighteen,
but freedom is not something that concerns me.

instead i dream
of streamers and sprinkles,
and all the soft white padding
of the childhood birthdays
i never had the chance to celebrate.

there are no pictures,
no lasting heartfelt impressions-
there is essentially, nothing
except the faded memories
of parents who couldn't be bothered enough
to slow down and say
'i love you'.

so tonight i curl up carefully,
and hurl my pain to the stars outside
see them falling,
one for every wish that never came true,
and i trace the raised white outlines
of the only two scars i've carried.

(i scarred my knee when i was seven,
marked it twice,
climbing dream-like heights
in the green canopy
of pontiac, michigan.
)

and swelled inside those scars
is all of the naive ambition
i used to have in days long past,
which is stored there for safe-keeping,
waiting for the day that i
finally retrieve it.

but i wonder now,
if i would even know how to
use it again.