Here I am
and there I was.
When dress up was just a game,
Ambitions a dreams coursed through my veins,
And even light bright couldn't measure up
to the surreal ambience that encompassed my life.

Rose buds sitting at my feet,
ready to breathe air into my lungs,
scarlet-red petals complimenting daisies,
golden like the sun that constantly shined.
And the roses, parting for my nimble stride,
were other wordly in the way they kissed my feet. 

And the parents, such loving parents
that had created a flawless sanctuary
with a family tied together through
tradition and unyeilding faith,
held my hand with each step into childhood,
with each first and every last.
A world so perfect that make-believe
was going to a far-off land without
leaving the four pale walls of your bedroom,
and behind is left any ounce of madness,
any piece of destruction, 
any glimpse of sadness that could possibly be,
but didn't exist.

Afternoon naps followed by snacks
and quality time to relax and unwind
from the easy life I already had.
I loved everything.
I loved my family.
I even loved myself, and I was beautiful, I knew it,
Periwinkle-blue eyes and
a constellation of freckles
spreading scross the bridge of my nose,
Sandy bangs covering any imperfection
that I could have had at such a young age.

Such a close and comforting family,
margarine in a tub was nectar from the Gods,
and picky eaters didn't exist because
any food could suffice as gourmet. 

What a perfect childhood.

And here I am, looking back at myself
trying to realize that mirrors don't lie
and my hair has darkened and I've grown
and I'm not a child but a woman now.
Make-believe is childish.
It can't get you through the day,
but I close my eyes and think of what it would be like
to be young again, to be alive, to live.
I forgot how to pretend,
hardly motivation to get out of bed in the morning,
even when the sun is shining.
The innocence washed from my calloused feet
from walking too many miles in the wrong shoes.  

I am not myself.
I am not who I was.
I am not who I want to be.
And the love from my parents
seeps through my fingers,
collecting into a pile of
        could-have's should-have's.
The colours of life, not vibrant,
but dulling from a sanctuary lost in time.
But what they forgot to tell you when you're young is
not to grow up too fast,
live with no regrets,
and that you can't turn back,

It'll be too late.