Teenagery Musings Before I Complete Two Decades: Boxes and Rooms

I am not one

To go back to messages exchanged

Words typed and backspaced

Emotions behind dimly lit screens 

But when I do

It feels like unpacking packed boxes

Ones lost (forgotten? lost? forgotten?)

While shifting 

towns, 

homes,
and rooms

With a friend's comforting words 

In a city lost in blurs

The only extension of home 

In a city that is not mine 
Like a landline 
With the spiralling cord holding my legs
Rooting me back in the ground

Soft voices
In 8 minute tracks
Warm white light
Washing faces at 2 A.M.
Laughter in spells of sleep
Love? Comfort?

An almost room 
With a name on top

Songs sent back and forth
Photographs
Conversations of 'facts'
Stars
Flowers
Poetry
Boxes that should be tagged 'miss'cellaneous

Misspelt words
Written through watering eyes
Desperately reaching out
Badly worded texts
With pruned fingers
Waddling through the drowning water

Traces of terrified fingers

Typing naive responses 

To older boys 
Trying their 'luck'
At what? A Fuck?
Asking about
Threads covering my skin
Questions I only understand now

Boxes I never open
With photos I never seeked
With texts I never read
Disgust echos in every fibre
Long lines of texts
Confessing supposed undying love
From both the unknown and oddly known
Bad rooms that I would rather lock

Arrows shot through
Anger and hurt
Confrontations 
Rolling eyes
Clenched teeth
Smashed screens
Realising the 'ends' in friends

Quick articulations
Meticulously chosen words
Sharp witty terms
Half-hearted burns
Terms 
Politics
Accusations
Name-calling
Blocking 
'Please go google'

Boxes with cobwebs
Memories so old 
That even feelings have now gone cold

Turning twenty is terrifying, moving out of the 'teenage' years fills me with an odd sense of growing up and dread. I have always been a person who has not allowed myself to indulge in 'teenagery' things, especially I've never let my poetry be about teen cliches and crisis or cringe. This week I let myself indulge in the cringiest cliches of being a teenager because it is the last time I get to, so here you have it teenagery musings before I complete two decades. 

Writer's Block

Since I've had one for the last many months

I choose to write of it

Hoping it breaks this insane cycle

Where I sit at a desk and my brain screams

Only to come up with blank pages

As though the inkpot of my feelings has dried

It has dried and hardened, not diminished

Making it toxic as it sits inside

The first few words come up to my throat 

Like the bile I feel every morning when I wake

But just as I gulp it before I puke

My backspace kills the chains of alphabets

Even now, I sit here with dwindling thumbs

Staring off into space after every line

This poem has literally no reason or rhyme

As someone who is supposed to have a way with words

I seem to have lost mine

I wish to end the poem abruptly

Because that has been the flow of my thoughts lately

They begin with a hope and passion

And then