Eight candles stood up with pirde ontop of white frosting that covered the surface of fluffy white cake. Flames wavered ontop of the bright candles, the wax melting slowly.

Those were the candles ontop of my eight year old birthday cake.
Turning eight,
a memory that goes bland when you reach thirteen.
I remember crying.
I remember hiding in my closet,
like it would block out the world.
When your eight, things like that make sense.
I look at the candles now,
there all differant heights with burned, melted tops.
It was if I could smell the flame and could hear the obnoxious noises of my family schreeching around me.
It was as if I could feel the salty tears streaming down my face as I tried my best not to spit on the cake and break into even more obnoxious sobs.
Yes,
that was one of my many bland birthdays.
But I know,
that with every year you live,
you gain more wisdom.
And with more wisdom,
the more of a chance I have of escaping any
rut that I get into.