when i was three,
my mama told me she loved me
even when she felt like she was
about to break
and the world she wanted to live in was
at stake.
when i was nine,
my daddy tried to give me the world
but he was a drunk and
alcoholics don’t keep their word.
when i was twelve,
my classmates tried to grow up too soon
and instead of playing outside
they bragged about their privileges all the
way until june.
when i was fifteen,
my friend told me that she was depressed
and i tried to take away her razors and
give her love and
tell her she was the best.
when i was sixteen,
my grandma got cancer,
but when you asked if she was okay
lies about how strong she was would always
be her answer.
when i was seventeen,
my boyfriend and i cried
because he lives too far away
and the distance between us
had always been too wide.
now i am eighteen,
and mostly everything is the same.
my mama says she loves me,
but sometimes i think i bring her shame.
my daddy doesn’t drink,
but he doesn’t have a job.
and my classmates now think
that they are higher than the law.
my grandma still lies
about whether or not she’s well
and my boyfriend and i still cry
about the stories we have to tell.
i have a best friend now,
but she always gets hurt
because she chooses to love people with
all her heart,
but they never love her in return.
i’m about to leave for college,
and nothing much has changed.
the world keeps on spinning,
but these stories stay the same.