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.

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LilyB

LilyB

Aspiring everything, but for the sake of 160 characters… I write and read poetry and personal essays. Happy to create/chat/collab!