You told me once,
that you were afraid
of not one,
but entirely too many things.

But you said to me,
something I could relate.

You were afraid of withering old,
growing bitter at such a young age.


I drew the tiniest of white lies,
slipped through the cracks of my two crooked front teeth,
and said I agreed.

But dear,
I've become bitter,
too long ago to remember.

In the future,
I'll let you know,
make you remember back to that moment.

You were the one that made me withered and bitter.