Growing up is like an old woolen blanket.
The threads were once new and fresh,
But are now weathered away,
Tarnished with over use.
Yet, I still cling to that old piece of wool, as
In those threads lies years of loss, love and affection.
So many first times, so many lasts, and yet
Every glance I sneak is filled to the brim with sadness.
Why am I sad? I am 18, I have no responsibility, no burdens.
And yet, my child-self seems so distant.
A distant memory, a different person.
Maybe one day I will learn to accept the past. Move on with my life.
But, until then, I am cursed with melancholy,
Happy memories seem bitter and twisted, but I know one day,
I will be able to put that old, tattered blanket away.