Twelve

We tend to outgrow ourselves.

 As if we are a baby doll or a teenage mutant ninja turtle figurine 

rather than a fundamental part of our own being

 At the age of twelve

 I was told to outgrow this silly notion that I could be myself

 I became a defective easy bake oven

sent back the moment the light stopped working

 But I could not blame someone else for burning out my filament

 I could only blame myself

I used to be the loud kid

 the obnoxious kid

 the one who didn’t seem to have a mute button

 no matter how many times you checked the remote

But when they took my training wheels

 they took me as well

And by the time I was twelve I was an empty shell

 I began to resent my loud voice and louder opinions

 wishing I could be more soft-spoken

 more feminine

 more Her. 

She who had all the power in her fingertips

 all the boys at her disposal

 a new outfit every day with matching accessories too

 And so in my desperate attempt to become Her

my soul began to leak

 dripping slowly out of a hole in my side.

My thoughts became consumed with more jealousy than ideas

 more focused on winning than living

 And so I outgrew what had once been an innate ability

 in exchange for a slim chance at popularity 

A Faustian Bargain

 I lost Her

rather than becoming Her.

One day we stopped talking

No more afternoon play dates

no more sleepovers

no more Her 

But it was okay

Wasn’t I supposed to outgrow those anyways?

 Just like my thoughts and my groovy girls

 Those are for children Madison.

 I know…

 But was it my fault that they brought me such joy.

 More joy

 than whatever it was that this transitional stage was supposed to bring

 What else has it given me besides anxiety

 and broken friendships? 

What has it not taken from me? 

Besides my groovy girls.