Seven

Seven

I am seven.
I am old.
Or at least I thought I was.
And what I thought was the truth.
It was the truth because I believed it.
And if I believed it, then it was real.
It existed just as I pictured it.
And I trusted myself, my feelings,
What I felt was true and real.
So if I thought I was old, I was.
No one could tell me differently.
Not even my parents.
No one knew the real truth about me like I did.
And I was stubborn, very stubborn.
So I didn’t listen to anyone but myself.
Because I KNEW the real me.
No one else did, and that was okay.
Or I thought it could be okay.
And what I thought was true.
But now I know it wasn’t okay,
And I wasn’t right.
And what I believed was not always true,
Not always real.
And look at me now.
I am always wrong.
But I know I am right at being wrong.

~Jenn