18 crept in with the quiet illusion of comfort
in the flakes of snow outside Gloria Jean's
on a Sunday afternoon, sipping something
warm and letting the cold seep into my skin
only to burrow myself into a warm blanket
afterwards. 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
panic, 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
month, 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
