Kind of Sad

Kind of sad to find my skin betray me,
softly folding into crepe;
I grow old from outside in
though inside raw
with still-unfinished
childhood.

I am still the stumbling toddler,
wanting to be wrapped
in my mother’s arms.

I am still the child
yearning to be an artist,
sidetracked into academics,
by Latin’s orderly grammar
and mathematics’ logic.

My skin no longer heals its bruises,
but wounds of adolescence
lie buried under scars,
life’s secret hidden in my bones.