18

I know it hurts
as if all that you've built has cracked and fallen on your chest
I know it feels as if all is lost
like the whole world has something you've misplaced,
but I need you to stop your crying, because a headache will do you no good
and I have a story to tell you,
one I suspect you've left on the shelf for far too long
so in case no one is there to remind you of its pages, I'm here to tell it to you once more
it's a story of a girl designed by the king of heaven and earth
the king that placed each star in the sky,
believed that the world would be left incomplete without her in it
he sent her here, in his perfect timing, to live the days she's living
to fight the battles she's fighting
but he knew she couldn't do it alone,
so for 9 months, her mama grew the heart that's beating in her chest,
waiting to meet her, waiting to hold her, waiting to show her this world
she was raised on hope and dreams,
and grew tall like a sunflower in a field of weeds
the world loved her so, for she loved the world
freckles covered her skin as evidence of the sun's sweet kisses
and the lines on her cheeks show all the smiles she's given
but the people in this land can be so cold,
and the girl has a heart that can only hold so much
her eyes look in the mirror and see a reflection, not a person
she cannot see the way she glows when she talks about love
and she cannot see the way she effortlessly brushes the hair out of her eyes on a windy day
she cannot know how many people she's passed who've wondered about her story,
and she cannot know how many flowers she's planted in another's yard with each dandelion wish
she has forgotten who placed her here, gently, in the arms of a woman who lived the tales she's telling
and her story is only one of 18 years,
her book is hardly filled
and I am certain, that if she just sat upon her floor, and pulled it out once more
she'd see that the world is only as confused as she
and that the life she has left to live can only get sweeter
because the king that dusted the sky in shooting stars to lay under,
has yet to set down his pen
and tell me, love,
what story do you know of, that ends before it even begins?