at seventeen, you’re blue eyed and bright, brilliant and fervently in love with the world; put me out, you dared, I dare you.

at seventeen and a month you feel sixteen, overwhelmed, and god, so young— inept and childish and so knee deep in the confusion of growing up and neverland-ish dreams—you wonder where the pixie dust is.

at seventeen and three months you’re locked out of your house, drunk; your clothes forgotten and alcohol soaked in the backseat of your friend’s car—you’re a walking kissing post, kissed post, post: stale and used and maybe just a little bit broken.

at seventeen and five months you finally feel seventeen and older and wiser and when you see your future daughter on the street, you prattle on about how you’ll raise her, plait her hair, teach her how to protect and lay bare her heart; about boys and love and sex and drugs—and for once, you feel seventeen years old and just a little bit more.

at seventeen and seven months your innocence is violently ripped away, and you walk about for weeks, head bowed and ashamed—the tattered edges of your dignity trailing behind you like the robes of a forgotten grey ghost, haunting, haunted—lonely.

at seventeen and eleven months you’re patched up and bandaged and absolutely, utterly, scarred. the red in your sink is still there and taunting you—but this time you tell it to try me, unwavering and steady, I dare you.

and at seventeen and 364 days, you’re brilliant, bright, blue eyed (again) and so so damaged. but you’re still standing and goddamn, so fucking alive—

—and you embrace the world; eyes closed. bruised arms.