A Poem
I think I’m reaching that age
when it’s suddenly rude for people to comment on how much I’ve grown.
Because we’ll both know they no longer mean my ascent into adulthood
or my newly protruding chest.
They want to talk about
my first grey hairs
(sprouting strands of stress)
maybe hoping I’ll take the hint and start painting it brown.
They want to talk about
the wrinkly lines on my face
deep creases of laughter they tell me to
“iron away with the newest all-miracle cream,
it’s easy.”
-Life wasn’t easy though-.
They want to talk about
the ghosty lines on my body
trenches dug into my thighs in times of
surplus snacking, or surplus hormones, I’m told,
“there’s another cream for that don’t worry,”
-I wasn’t-,
“you don’t have to live with them.”
-I will-.
They want to talk about these things
as if they’re signs of weariness
instead of signs of life and badges of honour and declarations of love.
Stubborn admiration
because the real miracle is that
not so long ago people died before their 25th birthday.
I’m here now hoping to make it to one hundred.
And here you are telling me to hide my body’s survival
You might want to close your eyes
when you see my grey hairs or my stretch marks or my wrinkles,
but you better close your ears too.
I don’t think it’s fair
that you oggled at my prepubescent body developing awkwardly
still dressed in my school uniform, but now choose to avert your gaze.
So if you think my grey hairs or my stretch marks or my wrinkles
are ugly, too bad,
cause I‘ll be screaming updates of my ageing from the rooftops.
