My face is hot but my feet are cold.

I’m choking on the emotion

I won’t let myself feel,

Wishing my mother was here,

That I had a father to speak of.

Because one is not two.

 

I hate that I’ll remember seventeen like this:

Responsible and overwhelmed;

Dying and living each minute.

Wanting to do nothing,

while knowing there is so much left to be done.

I’m overwhelmed and there is too much,

she says.

 

She is the me looking back and caring.

 

And I cry.