Birthdays are the bitch that breaks the news to my past selves. It's a measurement that stretches along my life, showing all that I've reached for compared to what I hold now. Time has never been gracious to me. Time doesn't slow down the clock, never gives me a chance to catch up to everyone else. It's survival of the fittest between me and time, and I don't fit anywhere enough to get the momentum. So, who will tell her? The 18 year old girl sitting on the bench but staring at a fork in the road, praying I made the right choice. The 24 year old in my car and on cloud 9 because I think he actually wants me this time. And who's going to tell her? I'm 28, writing a poem about growing up, but really wanting to grow within, to prepare as much as I can for the good love I know is breathing somewhere. And do I exist, 10 years from now on a day like today, shaking my head, breaking the news, still asking, oh honey, who's going to tell her?