Sixteen.

It is strange to realise what you have become.
When I was little I used to sit by my window and stare in to the incoming darkness and my dim reflection. I liked my reflection in windows. The face staring back at me was less complicated than myself. My freckles would vanish, my unruly hair that grew wider rather than longer would appear smooth, flowing in comparison. But although such a reflection failed to show the detail of my appearance it always managed to portray the details of my thoughts.
I always considered what I would one day become. Sixteen. That was all desired to be. Sixteen. Not too old, nor too young for any of the pleasures or pains the world has to offer. Sixteen. Would these freckles still be unwelcome invaders? Would my hair still be white blonde? Would it always be this wild? I prayed no to the latter.
I would be able to stay up until 10 o'clock, even 11 maybe. I would go to see live music every night. I would be in a band, a fantastic band that everyone adored, and I would have a boyfriend who was in that band too. Sixteen. Sixteen was all I wanted.
Sixteen. I sit by my window and stare in to the incoming darkness and my dim reflection.
Sixteen has not become the beacon of glory I anticipated – it is not perfect.
But I will confess, it is close.
I sit by my window and stare in to the incoming darkness and my dim reflection.
The little girl within me smiles.
It is strange to realise what you have become.