I was thirteen when I made the first incision on my ****** heart, allowing its contents to pour out in a heavenly wave of confusion and innocence.
Which is fine.

I was fourteen when I tried to stitch the pericardium back together with the “I love you’s” that were never meant to be said, the heat of the activity, and the temporary “Stay Strong”s.
Which is also fine.

I was fifteen when I learned that the heart muscle can only regenerate in small, limited quantities, that it would never be quite the same in its entirety.
Which is, again, fine.

Now I am seventeen days from my sixteenth birthday, and I’m learning that time spent alone can not only let you find yourself, but can also lead you to parts of yourself you weren’t meant to discover quite yet.

But I am almost sixteen, and it’s too late. I cannot forget what I know.

Maybe seventeen will be kinder.