Drift.

It's so weird, driving down the roads I thought I'd learn to drive on. Passing the house with the bedroom I didn't return to after I lost my virginity. The tire swing alone, untouched for years. Were my clean hands the last to graze the cracked rubber?

I left the girl I was, the girl in the white dress, pure and uncracked porcelian. I left the golden blonde hair with the bangs that rested just above my eyebrows. I left the childhood worries and problems.

When did my hands get so big? When did their polish go from a sweet grape purple to black? Not the kind of black the young girls paint in middle school to prove how tough they are, but the kind of black to hide the blood once I tear this world apart, full of vengance. When did these bones get used to the constant unbalanced weight of my body, peaking and hiding in alternating patterns with my manic moods. When did my mouth begin to house far more than just words, but sentences and decisions that shatter all I'm surrounded by. When did I let the most treasured parts of myself begin to be shared by you, and even shared with others unwillingly; forced?

I don't know when I grew up. Even though I said I left my innocence behind, even while I was there, it was slipping away. It melted into the cracks of the blue floorboard in my room, into the thin walls, out the broken windows. It's been falling from me all this time, but since I left, I feel like things are either terribly right or wrong. Sometimes, telling the difference between the two is impossible, and sometimes as clear as night and day. I wonder where things broke apart, where things came back together, and where I lost and found myself again.