I’ve never had the best of luck with birthdays.
They’ve ended badly in my book.
There was my 15th birthday.
2 people showed up.
And left early.
My best friend didn’t even come.
There was my 16th birthday.
My sister stole the show with her shiny new ring
And no one wore their masks.
There was my 19th birthday
I just didn’t celebrate.
Then there was my 21st.
The one I shared with you.
We thought it was a sign cause we had the same birthday.
A sign that said you and I were meant.
Well we were meant.
Just not forever.
We were meant to crash and burn.
To explode in a thousand swirling twirling embers
That would leave scars from where they licked my skin.
But I like the way I look now.
I like the way my voice carries.
I like the way I can’t keep a secret.
I like the way I still have that tan line we created together.
I like the way my skin feels rough from all the scars you caused.
Because that reminds me what I made it through.
But I still don’t like birthdays.
This year when it rolled around
All I could think was that
It was the night everything changed.
The way everything turned twisted and held the perfect image of beauty.
Of how the three of us spent the night in a park laughing and ignoring the dark.
And how it cemented us.
And so this birthday thing.
I’m thinking of changing it.
Perhaps a spring birthday is what I need.
My new birthday.
A new birth.
Because after the Great Fire of Winter 11
I was reborn.
Next year I’m celebrating in March.