I’ve had so many epiphanies,
that I keep them on the shelf,
they stare with accusation,
because I couldn’t fix myself.
I stare back,
back on my bullshit,
face to face with my problems,
and everything that comes with being a perpetual, pretty mess,
missing opportunities to find perfect peace,
because I can’t accept that I deserve it.
When I was thirteen,
I was lonely,
but ungrateful for how untouched I’d been by pain,
and I stare at all the realisations I’ve come to,
and I see a child’s eyes staring back,
so afraid to grow up.