The funny thing about aging is that you never really feel your age.
When i was 11 i felt 42 and when i was 15 i felt 9.
Now I’m 18, swimming in a world of possibilities, and I feel like every age except my own.

Some days I’m 13 again, scampering down the hallway, hoping someone, a boy, will notice me.
Some days I’m 13 and I dissect myself in the mirror, shining the flashlight of my iphone 5 on every flaw.
Some days I’m 13 and I run through a boundless field with boundless energy, chasing only the wind behind my shoulders.
Some days I’m 13 and I stare at my ceiling, and the future screams infinite and loud.

Some days I’m 30, and I sit writing poetry on my couch, penciling out the bitterness of a woman twice my age.
Some days I’m 40 and I write emails, do laundry, and sip coffee between customers at my 9-5.
Other days I’m 50 and I try to run faster than my old (young) legs can carry me and I trip and I fall and I stumble as I get back up.
Still, some days I’m 60 and I grasp every moment like sand as it slips through my fingers.

There are some days- few- where I am 18.
I get into trouble with my friends and I make mistakes and I don’t learn from them.
I fall heart over heels for a boy.
I love my mother and I spit fire at her just the same.
I shatter my soul, I grow a new one;
I grumble and slouch and smile and laugh
and wonder how old I will feel when I’m 20.