#fifteen
My Gramma and My Pop-Pop’s
First date was The Ice Capades.
I have the booklets to prove it from the
Very date—1950—she would have been fifteen.
She was fifteen, and in-love;
Married at nineteen.
He took her to Frank Sennes’ Moulin Rouge;
Theater Restaurant. These booklets—
These booklets smell like her perfume;
Chanel #5. I wonder who she had shown
These booklets to; I wonder how
I came to inherit these booklets;
Or I wonder how these booklets were out,
Or there, for me as a keepsake…? These booklets—
These booklets—Oh—how my history is tangled up in
These booklets—Oh—these booklets. I only see one date on
One-of-the-four of these booklets. She did say that,
Her and My Pop-Pop, “We had kept up with it”,
Because My Gramma, and My Pop-Pop had loved the
First date so much.
“I knew then”, she’d say,
About being fifteen, and in-love.
©2025Ellen Finn
Nov 21, 2025
Nov 21, 2025 at 4:41 PM UTC
lace and distaste
affection and addiction
obsession and possession
the pain without gain
the rotting of the brain
the parents pride and prune and preen
you've finally turned 15
lack of sleep
little to eat
just take more medication
if that doesnt help, review it on yelp
and theyll say you just lacked dedication.
the adults find you fit to be seen
"you're not actually 15?"
the brain shutting down
systems start to drown
you're not in the best scene
welcome one
welcome all
another fool turning fifteen.
-Ajs
Mar 2, 2025
Mar 2, 2025 at 10:00 PM UTC
Fifteen, a number, a simple decree,
A midpoint, a balance, a harmony.
Fifteen days past the month’s young start,
A teenage year, a hopeful heart.
A baker’s dozen, with two more to spare,
A quarter and three, a thoughtful share.
Fifteen minutes, a pause in the day,
A moment to reflect, to stop and to stay.
So let us appreciate this number of grace,
A stepping stone, a steady pace.
Fifteen, a symbol, a promise untold,
A chapter yet written, a story to unfold.
Aug 15, 2024
Aug 15, 2024 at 1:53 AM UTC
Talking to you never gets easier
I fall back into fifteen
Every time your name is on my screen
The giddiness, the waiting
Waiting to see what you say
But now it's been almost ten years
What do I want to hear?
I'm not sure
Why do you tell me things aren't good with her?
At the absolutely worst timing
I have someone now
And you're not around
We're just talking
Jan 12, 2024
Jan 12, 2024 at 12:00 PM UTC
Some time in may
Last year, 2018
It was a warm day
I was thirteen
You said you didn't want me
Anymore
You broke my heart and changed me
But that's not the end
I thought I'd never finish
Being thirteen
To die was my dearest wish
But I turned fourteen
You may have broke my heart
But it fixed on its own
You messed me up real smart
Now my hearts on airplane mode
Won't let anything in
That includes memories of you
I'm going to win
I will forget how I loved you
You you you you you
On my mind
Me me me me me
Please be kind
To yourself
You're still alive
Look at you
Heart still going
My heart's on airplane mode
At least it's still beating
Living on my own
No more feeling
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 7:09 AM UTC
was uttered in a
computer generated,
non-demeaning,
gender neutral tone
by the impersonal,
unemotional,
automated,
grocery checkout machine.
"Enter your customer ID now!"
demands the artificial human.
"And... if I don't?"
I query the metallic shell
of what once was
a minimum wage employee.
There was no reply.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 10:42 AM UTC
why’d i stop celebrating?
or even blowing candles?
or hoping that people would say sweet words
on the day that i was born
it was too toxic for me
too much people smiling
when they only want to eat the food
in my feast
and leave without
saying a word
gifts too genuine and expensive
but do they make me happy?
no cause money
is false hope of happiness
i tried to smile
for everyone stay strong
but why did everyone changed
as my age differs a single digit
i miss the old parties were
i could only be laughing
full of joy
but now it is full of
lies, my laughs
that you hear
are very pretentious
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 11:50 PM UTC
Summer is
far as I think,
it flickered when
I blink
dreaming of
nostalgic
no winter, no autumn.
Maybe,you were written
in a next page,
I am the half
of your gut,
in every torn paper
and scratches.
How many times
it took a relevance?
like i'm dreaming
of "if you are mine?"
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 9:00 PM UTC
You sit there on the edge of your bed at seventeen wondering where the hell it all went wrong.
Growing up didn’t seem so awful until you realized that eventually you’re going to fall in love with a beautiful girl, and she’s going to tell you she loves you back but not until she loads her gun.
So you keep sitting there, at the edge of your bed, praying that she loves the color of your eyes more than she loves the smell of the flowers she’s going to place at your grave.
But she doesn’t.
She never did.
So at seventeen, you decide to jump.
You jump off your bed and the fall seems to go on forever.
But your bed was never a bed, it was the pedestal she had you on for fifteen months and you finally had the courage to take that leap of faith and free yourself.
Except freedom isn’t freedom if you’re still shackled up and chained at the bottom of the oceans in her eyes and helplessly addicted to the satin feel of her skin. You scream and scream, but nothing can break the silence.
That’s when you realize she pulled the trigger and didn’t even kiss you goodbye.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 5:39 PM UTC
I wasn't there when you died.
Though its clear now that it was your time
You were 14 and had dementia, half deaf, and half blind.
Not to mention the arthritis.
Still doesn't hurt any less
I still feel your soft black and white fur
The feeling when you blessed us with a kiss
Your chocolate brown eyes
When you were a puppy
I remember you losing your teeth
Except you didn't have a tooth fairy
I remember you climbing onto the widow seat
I still have that picture.
No idea how you even got up there.
One week before Fudge died,
It was a normal friday for me
I went to work, had a great day.
I came home and wondered where you were.
My mom had put you down and taken Fudge to the vet hospital
December 9th, 2016
I didn't realize that morning was the last time I would see you.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 3:05 AM UTC
December
2 pm
We drive up to the building
It seems solemn now
We came to see you for the final time
December 15th
2:05 pm
We gather our courage to get out of the car
I open the door
Its heavy
December 15th, 2016
2:10 pm
We're ushered into the room where you are
You try to get up to reassure us
We know you're in pain
Thursday, December 15th, 2016
2:11-2:16
I'm holding you now
I have your favorite stuffed animal
Thursday, December Fifteenth, 2016
At 2:20 pm
The vet tells us to tell him that you are a good boy
"You're the best dog I could have ever had, Fudge. I'll love you forever."
On Thursday, December Fifteenth, Twenty sixteen.
At 2:24 P.M.
You died in my arms.
The happiness and relief you had in your eyes.
You were in so much pain.
I love you. Forever
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 2:53 AM UTC
When I was fifteen, there were only three more years
until I could leave.
I numbered the days like some people count calories
or steps
or breaths
onetwothreefourfivesix
counting until there was no air left.
Out of breath, out of step, out of line,
one more time;
try a little harder,
push a little faster,
be a little better, a little stronger,
smarter
sweeter
tougher.
Braver.
I'd spin in circles until I was dizzy,
around and around andaroundaroundaround
before starting all over.
Out of control, too fast to ever really stop.
And then back to the beginning again
where I first began,
reduced to less than nothing,
just a slip of the person I'd hoped to become.
When I was fifteen, life was a game
where there were winners and losers
and then people who didn't ever quite make it.
Neither a winner, nor a loser,
neither a hero nor an enemy,
just nothing at all.
I ran around, afraid of everything,
hoping if I ran fast enough, whatever was lurking in the shadows might never catch me
consume me.
I ran until one day, I slipped and fell down the rabbit hole,
past where anyone could see
or hear
or reach.
I fell through the cracks I sidled around everyday walking home from school,
books in one hand,
memories in the other,
clinging to both for dear life.
I was just a sprig with dead leaves and a damaged stem,
no petals or blooms,
flowerless,
my roots growing in the wrong direction, defying gravity.
Empty hands reaching up into the air,
grasping for something to pull me back to earth,
push me forward into the world.
Desperately searching for something to believe I was enough,
believe I was worthy.
Believe I wasn't a mistake,
a surviving **** in a blossoming garden.
Hoping.
When I was fifteen, there were only days
weeks
months
Every minute accounted for
yet all forever lost in one sleepless dream,
in one fell swoop.
Time lost, standing still, forgotten,
my watch the only thing keeping each day from running into the next.
I am not fifteen, anymore.
I have found my roots,
my time,
my place,
It's safe, it's home.
There's hope.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Time is not forever,
but neither is this.
It'll be okay.
You'll be okay.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 8:57 PM UTC
Daydreams about my future
consumed my fifteen year old mind,
if only I was informed that eight years later,
I'd still be daydreaming about my future.
Daydreams about my future
consisted of joy and freedom
if only I was informed that eight years later,
I'd still be restrained and joyless.
Daydreams about my future
so misleading to think I would be successful
eight years later and I still question if this
pain will ever cease to exist.
Daydreams about my future,
a world full of fairness that celebrates brightness
not this mess of confused individuality where
anonymity is the new frontier.
Daydreams about my future,
gave me hope that one day I would find the acceptance
I so desperately craved
Eight years later and I'm still hungry.
Daydreams about my future,
reprieve from the torment from my peers.
who would have known, that eight years later
my peers would still misunderstand me.
Daydreams about my future,
the place I withdraw and hide in.
Eight years later and I'm still stuck
in daydreams about my future.
Daydreams about my future,
a hopeless concept my young mind created
to pretend that reality is nonexistent
Eight years later and my reality is still choking the life from me.
Daydreams about my future,
the only thing that keeps me going,
eight years later and I'm still relying on a lie
to get me through this life until it's time to die
Daydreams about my future,
who would have known that I would be so naive to stay here
Eight years later, my twenty-three year old mind has
disappointed my fifteen year old self.
Daydreams about my future,
are all I have left.
Eight years later and I'm still here,
daydreaming about my future.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 2:58 AM UTC
Fifteen, I thought he was mine, fifteen he made me his, eighteen I am my own, eighteen I made me mine. I loved him like there was nobody else in the world simply because he told me there was not. Eighteen I knew, even if there was only me and him, I would rather love me.
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
*
I was Fifteen.
You were twenty.
Torn and broken,
That's how you left me.
What kind of man are you
To act the way you did.
To break down and destroy me
I was just a little kid.
It's been five years already,
You'd think I'd finally be ok.
But I can still run it through my mind
As if it were yesterday.
There was beer on your breath
And your eyes were red
Twenty minutes later,
I wished I was dead.
You pushed me down.
You called me a *****
Even after all these years,
There's so much left to fix.
You finally left me
The room just seemed to spin.
Even now I just feel disgusting
Living in this skin.
I don't know what made you choose me
Nor do I care.
Just the thought of seeing you
Is too much to bare.
I hope someday you realize
How disturbed you truly are
For upon my heart
Will always be this scar.*
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
One, you make happy,
not two much, just the right kind
but it's three hundred times more
than I've ever felt befour
Five days later, still hooked with each other
We'd spend six hours talking
for seven days a week, and each day
you never failed to ask if I eight already
Nine weeks later, "hooked" became an understatement
for we'd spent ten hours talking,
eleven, if it's a weekend. It's a shame though,
we didn't even get past twelve weeks.
But love, did you know?
Yesterday, I survived fourteen days without you
I survived but I'm barely alive and now
I don't know if I can think of another fifteen weeks without you.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 1:47 PM UTC
His bright green eyes shined brighter than anything I've ever seen before, he wouldn't keep eye contact, his eyes would look all around me, to the floor even, glancing at me only occasionally. I guess that should've been my clue. Right then I should've gathered myself and walked away. Of course I didn't though, because what girl would? When you're fifteen and the guy everyone drools over stands in front of you and tells you that you're everything he's ever dreamed of then of course... Of course you're not going to just simply, walk away. Of course you're going to believe every word he says. Even when your best friend says he kissed another girl you're going to believe him. Always. And when you haven't heard from him in three weeks and he calls you and says he still loves you, you're going to pretend you don't know about all the parties, all the girls he's slept with. You're going to let all the patterns fall back into place. You're fifteen for gods sake why would you not? You just want someone to love you because your father left when you were six and your mother blamed you every since. She drowns herself in alcohol and denies you. And your family? What family? They disowned your mother before you were two. You just wanted him to take care of you. So what if he sleeps with other girls as long as he's happy right? So what if he leaves bruises on your face? All your friends just think your mom got too drunk again and none of the teachers ever really care . You've practically raised yourself since you were ten, and you never let anyone in but the piercing green eyes melted the wall and he got in but he just got in to tear you down because he can't stand the idea of anyone being happy if he isn't.. You just wanted someone to save you, because you're fifteen. And you haven't learned yet that you're the only one who can save you.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 2:16 AM UTC
The first time I wrote about you, I thought you would think it was romantic, I thought you would appreciate all the time I thought of you.
The second, I realized you weren't here for romance or flowers or kisses on the porch.
The third, I wished you were.
The forth, I settled with being an object of your torture, and sometimes play.
The fifth, I decided I was nothing with or without you.
The sixth time I wrote about you it was about the **** I told everyone else was the first time we had ***
The seventh, I pretended that my broken rib didn't stab into my lung when I coughed up the tar that filled my lungs, I picked up habits that could never hurt me more than you.
The eighth time was when you decided I was worth your time again.
The ninth was the first time I said I loved you, and it felt like I hated you.
The tenth, I was territorial, I wanted to be the only one you abused.
The eleventh, I played with the idea of you loving me, the key word was played.
The twelfth time I wrote about you, I pretended this was a normal high school crush, not the connection to you sealed with the reddened amber keeping you close to me.
The thirteenth. The thirteenth time I had a dream where I starved you, like my fruitful forgiveness of your sins was the very nectar that fed your body, and I starved you.
The fourteenth you were kind. The only time you were ever kind to me was the fourteenth. This span of time was when I fell back in love with the man who made me forget what it even was, and felt guilt about the thirteenth.
The fifteenth. The fifteenth time I wrote about you was on Easter. I was reborn into a life of loneliness and constantly trying to get you back.
Age Fifteen was when you first hit me but sometimes I still consider fifteen my lucky number.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
Tonight's my last night of living in the age
Wherein I exhibited a drastic change
Influenced by somebody miles away
Since then, I had not gone astray
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
She is too young
For a broken smile,
She is too young
For a miserable life,
She is too young
For scars on her arms,
She is too young
For wanting to be dead.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 1:19 AM UTC
She was only fifteen
A raving beauty queen
Longing for him to care
Wishing that he was still there
A raving beauty queen
To her, he was always mean
Wishing that he was still there
Trying to forget how he would swear
To her, he was always mean
A poor innocent girl only fifteen
Trying to forget how he would swear
Back into his eyes she began to stare
A poor innocent girl only fifteen
Wanted a love she saw on screen
Back into his eyes she began to stare
All because she longed for him to care.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
No, it doesn't happen
Through secret glances
And shy smiles
Nor does it happen
When you gaze into ones
Deep crystal eyes
It doesn't happen
In the midst of flashlights
Or romantic background music
It happens
When you see deep within
Ones soul
Not just the window
But the whole house of emotions
It happens
When he grows meadows of daisies
Inside the ugliest parts of you
It happens
When he caresses your tear stained face
In 2 in the morning
And holds you like you're gold
It happens
When you're upset over him
Not being there for your little fits
It happens
When the suitcases under your eyes
Are packed
With thoughts of him
And only him
It happens
When you're too young
To fully comprehend
What the universe holds for you and him
But what if
At a tender age of fifteen
You know he's the one?
The one
That holds the perfect fit
To your broken soul
It happens
When you least want it to
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
i ran away from home
when i was fifteen for two
weeks, packing blue knee-highs
and makeup i would never
use, and fell into
the mantra of not knowing
where i was going but
the apathy wrestling inside
of me said it never mattered
so long as i was
free
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
A text from a friend: "When you die, will it matter whether you loved or hated? When the world does not exist, will it matter whether you lived a good life or sliced open your throat at fifteen?"
My friends all love philosophy
So forgive me if this seems a monstrosity
To say that the constant cut you feel
Is a wound that you can heal
(let me explain)
When you stab a knife into your heart
Tearing your own world apart
Because you can't bear that every day
You mean nothing to those worlds away
You will bleed out on the floor or sand
Gun or knife in your own hand
Hurt so much more than you thought you would
Then you're gone, darling, gone for good
(bear with me here)
Someone will find you, family or friend
Because if you're missing, who else would they send?
And I promise you to the end of their days
They will walk around with an empty haze
Over their heart and mind and body and soul
Never forgiving themselves, always so cold
For not talking you out of it, for being too late,
And darling, let's get one thing straight
(Only you could every forgive them, and you're gone, aren't you?)
And pardon me if this sounds strange,
But there's one thing more that'll never change
A ghost of you will always be
In everything they touch, everything they see
Because those who loved you once and love you still
Have known you then and always will
And that little ghost will stab them in the heart
Whether they're near or far apart
(Who ever thought you could be haunted by a memory?)
And as for the love and of course, the hate
Let me take a moment to calculate
Because by the (very) young age of just fifteen
It is impossible, unheard of, completely unseen
For you to not have saved one life
Helped heal someone, brought them out of strife
(And you're so young. What about when you're thirty? Sixty? Ninety?)
And of course, there's that one person out there
That special someone, the one who infinitely cares
Let me ask this, did you ever think
That by killing yourself, in just a blink
You're taking that joy, happiness, and love
Only you could give or even dream of
Past, present, and future, you are the only one
Who could love like that and their heart won
(They will only ever have the chance to be content. Content is not the same as happy.)
So to my friends who love philosophy
Forgive me if this seems a monstrosity
But we aren't meant to matter to the universe itself
Humans are meant to matter to someone else
We mean so much more in all the little ways
Who cares if our name becomes a holiday?
(You are made up of little bits and pieces that make life worth living. Don't ever tell me that you don't matter.)
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC