Here's the day I hoped would never come

My shoes are one size smaller
Hard to get around, to take a step forward
Why must I still wear them?

My hair is two inches longer
Hard to keep away from my eyes, to see anything
Why is it so hard to reach for the scissors?

I'm three pounds heavier
Hard to fit in these clothes, flaunt myself
Why can't I wear them one more day?

My scars are four hues lighter
Hard to see them, to remember
Why do I still pull my sleeves down?

The circles under my eyes five years deeper
Hard to conceal, to feel any younger
Why do I still slave over the mirror?

My room six years empty
Hard to see, hard to feel
Why must I keep going back?

My family seven generations bigger
Hard to keep track, to love so many
Why do I still feel detached?

My father eight months sober
Hard to forgive him, hard to trust him
Why does he still look the same?

My mother nine years into the Bible
Hard to understand, hard to believe
Why does she still seem the same?

My sister ten seconds behind the wheel
Hard to see, hard to realize
Why does she still seem ten seconds old?

My husband eleven seconds gone
Hard to feel happy, hard to feel myself
Why must I still watch the door?

My friends twelve years happy
Hard to not envy, hard to not respect
Why must I still search for them?

My daughter thirteen years old
Hard to trust, to disconnect
Why must I relate?

My body, my smile, my life, fourteen years older
Hard to accept, to let go
So why must I still feel fourteen?