You know, it's funny. At my age, everyone's so desperate to seem like they've got it all figured out. Grown-up, and perfect, clothed in layers of disgust and animosity. And certainty that's at once thrilling, yet totally unbecoming. I realize, the more I listen to the aged voices of people twice my age, that I'm a completely different person than who I thought I would be, at this stage.
Don't look now, I'm changing. Even if it's my fault for letting you in. I'm sorry. I didn't know I was changing, moments before. I thought leaving the door open for you to see would be alright. But I've grown up in the comfort of three seconds. I'm an adult now, and with me, all the modesty of old age. Look away, else you might witness my slacking skin, and the lines cropped close to the bone. Against my flesh, which everyone, even you, might've longed for once.
Photo by Emiliano Vittoriosi on Unsplash
I am no longer who I was, but also don't remember who I've been. There's stargazers in here, and no one speaks to us of destinations and hope. I realize, now, my ill-begotten composure, the powdered maturity that once tarnished my skin. I recognize in myself a child, or perhaps a tiny maggot, wishing itself into something else. Around me, discarded on the earth, the clothes in which I hid myself, the shame, and the wisdom, and the fake friends.
I wish I could stop here, for a second, to speak to you. Tell you how wonderful it's been. But I can't, and now, I'm no longer even sorry. I realize, with childish astonishment, I'm not the person I knew myself to be. And this journey, it's far too exciting for gas stations and quick pit stops. I'm going, now. I'm almost gone. Slip through your fingers, and allow me to fear. Undress me of clothes I no longer need.