There are eight months before I bid goodbye
To just the second decade of my life
Yet, I feel infinitely old
Weighed down by an invisible hand on my heart
I struggle to sense authenticity in
Anything I feel now
I feel like a fake particularly when I laugh
I fear the tightening around my throat
When I struggle to let loose the words
That crowd within me
And when I do manage to say something
The release brings me no relief
Instead, I find I dislike the sound of myself
And the grass seems greener when I don’t utter a word
*****
I now know that most people don’t listen
They only talk, often without listening to themselves either
And there are a few, like me, who are born
To just listen and offer no comment
To just speak when spoken to
To just breathe until I don’t have to