In my great tale my predestined coming-of-age Innocuous, bittersweet glad To have made it this far alive,
I hope my heroine is mostly the same. I think I am in one of those years less about changing More about remembering.
Returning to the belly that didn’t question Whether it was full or hungry. a return to self-regulation and boundaries that quaked ferociously—screams. That baby—knows how to say no.
I don’t think I’m changing. I think I’m remembering things we are untaught we learn again and I sadly believe this is a cyclical thing But today I’m remembering.
My coming-of-age 20 returns to two. I write my script in a font that fits and fight the urge to ask my mother’s opinion.
I surely will come of age again. Around 32 Again at 45 Heaven forbid I should reach 59. And every year before or after that. 20 returns to two. Remembering histories in vibrant pink Futures, navy blue.