Twelve, such a sticky time
Caught between the what has been and the what will be
So much a child, yet so much grown
Growing into an amazing you
Unsure of yourself in so many ways
Finding beauty in the discovery
Pasting bandaids over the wounds of immaturity
So much is expected of you
Probably unfair, that.
After all, twelve is still just twelve
And I really don’t want it to be twenty
Not yet
Twenty will come all too soon
Twelve
Half-Pint House 
Love this.
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lovely poem. the line about posting bandaids is perfect – from a mom who has had a daughter who has been 12 and one who is almost 12 – those are familiar pangs.
Thank you for a lovely gift.
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Thanks. Twelve is definitely harder than eleven was, which was harder than ten. I don’t want to fear thirteen, but I’m getting close…
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