Birthday Blues

a poem

Happy birthday to me. You’re one year older, one year wiser. You could’ve died, but you didn’t. You a survivor.

Happy birthday to me. For that one day out of 365 days, you’re special. You matter. You’re validated. Celebrated.

Happy birthday to me. But there’s this dark cloud hanging above. And I just can’t rise above. Instead I fall into a black hole, out of my control.

Happy birthday to me. When Eve bit into that apple, she knew coldness. And that black holes hits soulless. Doubt creeps in. The truth lies within.

Happy birthday to me. You’re not special. You never were. Facebook lists how many more people have your same birthday. Today. Same day.

But so what? Mitigate that expectation of validation. Why do you need it? You don’t. You won’t. You’re not a small kid figuring out her motor skills awkwardly. You’re not a pimply teen working out the intricacies of puberty.

You’re an adult. That what is most important is not validation from anyone or anything. It’s the waking up in the morning, to smell, to feel, to laugh, to heal for another day, and then another day, and then another day. Soon, you’ve hit the year mark, where there’s always sun after the dark.

You’re 31. You made it this far. Sit down. Be humble.

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