Eighteen. Nineteen.

Eighteen
has come and it soon will pass
(tomorrow) 
I will be “one year older.” 
Some piece of me is sad, eighteen was exciting
and exhilarating and cool and birthdays always make me a little sad. 
Because pre-eighteen I was young and
post-eighteen I am young and old in new ways. 
Because being eighteen I learned so much
and forgot a lot.
I loved so much, and hated a lot too (we all have, I think).
I traced infinity signs into my arms and reminded myself that
nothing is infinite. 
Although sometimes, I wish it was. 
Because pre-eighteen I was a “child” and now 
I am
an “adult.” 
Because one year older means absolutely nothing.
And absolutely everything. 

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