Seventeen
“I never planned my life past seventeen.”
You said that too often,
it lost its meaning, to them, to you.
But it still feels strange, doesn’t it?
You promised yourself to die before seventeen,
Because you could only see fear in the future.
It took years for you to learn that life was never only fear,
It was only the countless runaway nights you spent in strange cities,
It was only the night sky filled with noises of silence and scents of the sea shore,
It was only the journeys you have been on, feeling the vibrations of late night express trains,
It was only the white cement wall next to your hospital bed, carved with names and words of comfort,
It was almost too late.
You seemed to have survived,
Abuse. Bipolar. Yearly attempts.
All brushed off.
But what now?
You’re going to be late for everything.
Graduating school? One year.
Moving out? Four years.
Enjoying life? Seventeen years and counting.
And, if you have not realised,
Surviving itself changed nothing.
You are just still here.