In-Between Worlds

I used to wear it on my shirt like a badge of honor, 

When they claimed I was too mature, too understanding.

Wish I could rewind and tear it off my sleeve, 

Give myself toys to revel in,

Instead of lugging burdens I couldn't bear.

It gave me a false sense of fortitude and hope,

I never seemed to grasp, it was weight on my bones.

It’s not that I grew up too fast, it’s that I’ve always been this way,

It’s not that I’m risking too much, settling,

It’s that I’ve always been this facade.

Age and happiness are no concepts to me,

I don’t believe how young I am.

Youth feels like a countdown to old,

And old whispers stories of once being young that I never was.

I can’t look, look back and laugh at my dumb,

What's young devoid of joy?

But what’s grown without ever growing?

Growing old should mean nurturing inner aspirations,

Yet every tense of my being yearns to die.

I’ve always been like this,

I still feel and feign childishness.

I never truly grew up, never thought it necessary,

I was a child with adult worries,

A blueprint for a wandering, unformed adult.

I am an underdeveloped adult,

A prototype of a sorrowful child.

They often said I was too mature for my age,

And so it became my persona, being my age and unidentified,

Just a girl longing for more toy-filled days.

Children overwhelmed with life grow up too soon,

It’s a tragedy; when they do, the child within remains raw.

I’m the antithesis of Peter Pan,

Trapped in a world of appearances, yearning for a lonely neverland.

And what weighs heaviest on my heart,

What's afflicted me then still plagues me now, likely forever,

And what I felt then, I feel now, will persist,

It’s as though this poem isn't my creation, but rather my past, present, and future inscribing themselves,

Yet could it perhaps serve as a letter,

From my current, aged self,

To my former, youthful self,

In hopes of change, in some reality.