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The Immaturity of Age
Anger pulse through my veins.
I am only seventeen.
You are the adult I scream,
not me, you.
I shouldn’t have to do this,
shouldn’t have to watch you lock yourself in your room.
That should be me not you,
I am the seventeen year old.
How old are you?
Why am I asking you that?
You should be asking me that.
You ask me what seventeen year old acts like this?
I am not seventeen, you are.
I am fifty two.
I am you and you are me.
My fists clench.
You want respect?
I am supposed to respect an unruly seventeen year old,
an unappreciative little brat who only concerns are of herself.
I don’t think so.
I’m the adult, you respect me.
My knuckles whiten.
Back away from my face,
and stop crying, do you see me crying?
Go ahead; repeat what you’ve been saying over and over again.
Do you hear me?
I don’t think you do.
Oh, but I hear you.
The neighbors hear you.
My eyes squint.
I know I am such a b****.
You hate me,
tell me that I am ruining your life.
Go ahead,
slam the door in my face one more time why don’t you?
I forgot,
you can do whatever you want.
I am only you daughter,
I am only seventeen.
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Favorite Quote:
In that basement we were exactly who we wanted to be,
rock stars and poets, artists and designers.
That basement was our haven
because when we walked up those stairs
we were just teenage kids again
with dreams that were just too big.