You were my oxygen
The thing that made me think
I could escape.
Growing up always hurts.
But when you are a child it hurts inexplicably, indirectly proportional to your size.
For everything out there seems new and mesmerizing, mysterious and mischievous, turning out to be common, dirty and far from what you read in the beautiful candy-coated stories of childhood.
For the other kids will find your weak spot, and they will. Beat you down for it, be it too small, too big, too fat or too thin. Too black or too white while everybody turns a nasty shade of grey.
For the ones you love will leave, or forget, without an explanation or a kiss, breaking a young heart, unmendable.
For your dreams and longings are nearer to what you think: they're called next day, next girl, next big thing.
As we become 'real' persons, we only have this much: escape.
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