tragedy

They call it growing up

but I call it a tragedy,

trading bedtime stories for papercuts,

knowing you are too old

to cry over the blood that wells from split knuckles.

replacing stuffed animals with the body of another,

someone who's just as lost-

just trying to do the right thing-

but both of you have the hands of a child,

unfit for something as fragile as a heart.

When innocence is something to be condemned

it is exchanged for sharp words,

armor against a world in which you are not quite enough.

Because if they fear you

perhaps it will not be so lonely.