Seventeen

Seventeen

An in-between year

Not quite an adult

But almost there

Three hundred and sixty five days of being called a kid

But on that last day

And only on that last day

do you realize that being a kid wasn't so bad

In those last few hours of the night

of being seventeen

You wish you could turn back

You wish you could run through the playground,

scrape up your knees,

come home with grass stains on your elbows and blisters on your palms

But you can't

because you're not just a "kid" anymore

Now you're Eighteen

e.m.t.