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Aug 2019
18 crept in with the quiet illusion of comfort

in the flakes of snow outside Gloria Jean

on a Sunday afternoon
, sipping something

warm and letting the cold seep into my skin

only to burrow myself into a warm blanket

. 18, upon arrival, was gifted

with gorgeousness writ by a favorite friend

However, 18 came quietly, the world

defining her before she could have spoken to

me herself
. 18 began to hurt, trying to find

what she was born to be rather than what

she was being molded into
. 18, like snow,

was fragile. 18 had been January, and

then just as fast
, she is March. 18 is script-

writing with Mahnoor again
, just like 15,

16, 17, familiarity. 18 is confusion and

, a growing sense of unease,

muffling a voice in my head trying its

hardest to be heard
. Upon seeing April, 18

did not desire this trip anymore. But the

Spring brought whispers of vanilla and a boy

with the softest smile in a place of pain
. 18

was running off to corners of life, trying to

escape the stench of dying that had taken to

following her around
. 18 survived May, 18

survived June. 18 fell into July, a house

of gloom
, and decided to settle in the

, if only the month would settle for

18. The world was calling her, but she

would not be seen
. 18 ran back to the long-

awaited cold
, overcome with joy for the

numbered days
, a birthday again, a

bittersweet break
, an ache for escape.

But 18 walked away from July, and

found herself in August
, quite by surprise.

And August, she realizes, can be

anything she likes
August is ambiguous
Written by
Poetria  19/F/Pakistan
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