I am seven when I learn the world is not fair.

One day at my summer day camp, we are all able to tie-dye shirts 

and buy snow cones

from a colorful truck that lets you pour your own flavors.

Campers use their crumbled up fives

and the change in their pockets

to buy crushed ice with flavors like Tiger’s Blood and Blue-Razz.

Their hands are stained with sticky syrup and dye

and everyone has a sugar rush. 

Everybody but me, because I am sick the day we are told to bring shirts and money. 

I think tie-dye is ugly, anyways. 

 

I am ten when I learn I am too nice.

I run for student council president against my friend.

We are allowed to vote for ourselves, but I vote for her.

She votes for her too.

She wins by one vote.

I am not nice anymore.

 

I am twelve when I learn I like girls

just as much as I like Leonardo DiCaprio.

Her name is Cindy; she is weird and has red hair.

In art class, we learn about Frida Kahlo.

One girl mentions she is bisexual. 

My classmates laugh and wrinkle their noses, they say Frida is going to hell.

I never tell Cindy. 

 

I am thirteen when I get my very first Valentine. 

It is from a boy in my class named Robert,

but I hear it is a prank.

At lunch, Robert asks me out while his friends eagerly watch.

They laugh, and I go to the bathroom and cry.

I hate Valentine’s Day.

 

I am sixteen when I discover I have no friends.

I read Stephen King books in the library during lunch period,

because I have nobody to sit with.

The librarian gives me a look of sympathy,

and I glance across the library at the other sixteen year old girls

playing Jenga and giggling together.

I am alone.

 

I am eighteen when I graduate high school. 

After the ceremony, I stand in the parking lot

for half an hour

waiting for my parents to come get me.

My hair poofs twice its size from the humidity

and I feel ugly and gross.

I watch my classmates receive

hugs and teddy bears and flowers.

And they all take pictures with their parents

who didn’t argue in the car. 

I wonder what that feeling is like.

 

I am nineteen when I celebrate my birthday with my friends.

We blast Mr. Brightside in the car

and annoy all the tourists who pass by.

They give me a David Bowie shirt 

because they remember how much I love him.

We buy donuts and take goofy pictures

and I am happy to be alive.