Along the Lines of Fifteen

I'm fifteen.

I've held my sisters close as mom and dad fight upstairs.  Their questions hurt and their tears burn, but my own eyes are dry as I break off pieces of chocolate and read them a story.  As I hold them close, I wish that I was the one being held.

I'm fifteen.

I've fallen in love, and we are skating around the Olympic oval.  Really, though, you are pulling me as my knees and hands shake from the lack of food I've eaten coupled with the fact that I can't skate at all.  As we wait for my mother (who still doesn't know you exist) to pick me and my three or four other friends, you pull me in close, and give me a tender, sweet kiss.

I'm fifteen.

I've grown up a lot since our first kiss.  Carrie Underwood is playing as I write a letter, the words blurring in my eyes and my chest aching.  There is a lot of wisdom in the words I write you, though it is breaking my heart as you walk through your door and pull me close and tight into your arms, my letter crushed between us as I cry into your shoulder.

I'm fifteen.

I'm sitting on the couch, watching as Michael Phelps wins another gold medal, smiling at your excitement.  We are alone, and your arm around me was all I wanted.  You are warm and safe, comforting and secure, and I smile as you wrap me in a tight hug.  Already you are pulling me together, and the hurt from him is slowly fading.

I'm fifteen.

I want someone to hold me and tell me it will be okay, like I have done so many times.  I want to love innocently and naively, and be loved just as youthfully back.  I want to have the strength and courage that helped me write those words.  I want to feel the safety of a friend's arms wrapped around me, holding me together, when I thought I couldn't be more broken.