Teenagers.
That’s what we are.
Continually characterized as difficult, moody, and stressed.
Expected to make many mistakes, and to be forced to learn from them.
Furiously undermined and patronized at every
turn. It’s hard to have a voice as a teenager.

But we just want to be free.

These years when we’re old enough to see the world and realize its beauty and horror, these are the years when we are most
vulnerable.
The most
lost.

We have not yet been thrown into the expected constrictions of society, we can still be children, and we can still make
mistakes.

But we’re more than what we seem, we’re deeper than what the stereotypes paint us.
We want to stand at the edge of the world
and hear the water on the shore,
we want to stretch our fingers to the sky
and close our eyes and sing,
we want to be unafraid.

But we are so deeply afraid.
We are terrified to accept that life is running towards us in strides,
that we’ll soon be unconsciously bound to the expectations and constrictions of
society.
So much so that even if you rebel against them,
you are still acting in reaction to these constrictions,
they are still the cause,
the root of you and your problems.
But we’re teenagers.

We’re soft and light, gentle and smooth as a brush of the cheek.
We’re two finger peace signs, and the sunrise over snowy mountains.
We’re words on a page, and titles of books.
We are scattered confetti, and we are the raindrops on your windshield.
Our hearts pull towards freshly baked cookies, and the glow of a Christmas tree in winter.
We are messy bedrooms, and tiny butterflies.
We’re imitations and galaxies, typewriters and spiral staircases.

We are teenagers,
we’re fresh and we’re ancient,
timeless and limited,
repetitive and expected,
soft and fragile.

We are the strings that pull on the puppet, your heart.
So deeply insecure, we are delicately swinging from a broken web.
So deeply terrified of being thought of, of thinking, ourselves.

Judgment and eyes.
Watching and terrified by the thoughts which swim in the eyes of those you imagine.
Will we ever reach the end of the bucket?
Or are we perpetually trapped in a glass door complex.