I wish that,
on the day I turned sixteen,
I wasn't a ghost.
I wish the flickering flames
of my special day weren't
blurred lights, far away.
I wish I could have taken in
my dress, my curls, the smiles;
I wish I could have looked in the mirror
and seen more than a sixteen year
old hollowed girl
wearing lipstick.
I wish that people
laughing hugging jumping didn't
startle my soul so much;
I wish that
my deep down didn't want
to celebrate by curling into bed.

You see, this year I turned chapters early;
I aged somewhere months ago,
between the darkness and the low beams,
between the appointments and the poetry.