Age nine wasn’t fine. It was brutal and stealthily altered the landscape forever
Fourteen removed the cloak from my eyes and I saw the horizon of womanhood
Eighteen. Sweet release into exploratory wonder
A new nation. A new name. New faces. Old pain.
Twenty-one held me up and kept the charade charging for too long
I surrendered to the serenity of lust never-lasting and built the heart around the simmering ashes
Twenty-eight could never hold me down to believe that I wasn’t screwed immeasurably
The promise of what could unfold if the nudges of the past refused to pinch away the proof…
Thirty-three produced the easy/fail of requited love that saves the soul but kills the spirit
Thirty-eight revived the changing tides of plastered endurance, funneled by the recognition that the days ahead will not nurture
Forty-two is the realization that age isn’t just a number.
It’s a catalogue of why we won.
Or how we lost at this terrifyingly involved process
that intensifies as each number increases
and the dependence on tomorrow