Happy Birthday to You

A minute until you’re eighteen, and the party just started. I couldn’t bring myself to turn on the lights. At least the shadows look like they’re having a good time, bouncing on the dancefloor so kindly provided by the candles atop the drooping cake. I thought it would be nice to bake it myself, but it seems the oven wasn’t in the mood, either. The “Happy Birthday” song never really sounds good, but today it was as if it had to pass through a shredder amidst an earthquake before escaping my throat. I blew out the flames even though it would’ve taken less effort to hover over the cake and let my tears fall onto them. I wish it could’ve been me instead.