Immigrant

At the age of 15,
I have begun to feel old.
Standing by the window in my new house
Miles and miles away from what was my home
Will this country ever feel like home?

I feel like an immigrant escaped from war but
My salvation is not needed from bombs or guns
but my own thoughts and feelings.

Will this be the end of my life?
I want to start over
Give myself an honorary rebirth
I can see a solitary plastic bag caught on the nail that sticks out of the back fence
Solitary plastic bags on nails can be good metaphors for life.
I think it’s best not to dwell on metaphors.

I wonder
Do our mentalities have lungs
Is that why we feel suffocated
In a place where we, as people
Are not permitted to breathe?
I suppose there is no answer, while maybe there should be,
Many things in this life are conundrums.

Perhaps it is time expectation made way for acceptance,
But when they stole my innocence,
They stole my ability to forgive.
They can pray to their god for what they did,
I hope he burns them.