They Say: Life, like a fine wine, only gets better with time.
I say that their clocks are at least four years slow. I feel like this body can not contain me. That I've outgrown it. Pressed against the confines until I slowly suffocate.
Every year gets worse. Maybe they'll forget next time. No one will give a second thought to what day it might be. No one will try to seek me out to spew their rehearsed HallMark greetings.
What they feel will never be found in a card. Yet, they can't relinquish the notion that what little emotion they experience should be exploited for my "benefit". Fawning over incessant, minute, and negligible details.
Maybe, one day, they'll understand that it's just another day. The sun rises and sets. Life continues to cycle ever on. Just because it happens to be the anniversary of the day I entered this world, means nothing.