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Sisi123Poems
If I showed my younger self who I am now, she would believe I died years ago. She would ask me about my friends—the ones I was most attached to. I would tell her they’re gone. She would ask about the Barbies and Playmobil I used to play with for hours. I would say they’re gone too. She would cry, because she promised herself she would always take care of them, and that promise faded with time. She would ask where the little girl is—the one who swore to her mother in the kitchen that she would never change her favorite color, the one who couldn’t understand how her mom didn’t take the job of choosing it seriously. I would tell her she’s gone as well. She would ask about the hobbies I promised to win championships with. Gone. She would ask why I stopped practicing piano. My eyes would water as I told her that my serious dream of becoming a pianist is gone too. My younger self would cry, seeing that I became a girl who no longer believes in fairytales. She would ask me about my charming prince—the one I used to talk about, the one I told my childhood friend only existed in fairytales. And I would tell her we still haven’t crossed paths. But this… this is not gone yet.
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Jan 6
Jan 6, 2026 at 5:28 AM UTC
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If I showed my younger self who I am now, she would believe I died years ago. She would ask me about my friends—the ones I was most attached to. I would tell her they’re gone. She would ask about the Barbies and Playmobil I used to play with for hours. I would say they’re gone too. She would cry, because she promised herself she would always take care of them, and that promise faded with time. She would ask where the little girl is—the one who swore to her mother in the kitchen that she would never change her favorite color, the one who couldn’t understand how her mom didn’t take the job of choosing it seriously. I would tell her she’s gone as well. She would ask about the hobbies I promised to win championships with. Gone. She would ask why I stopped practicing piano. My eyes would water as I told her that my serious dream of becoming a pianist is gone too. My younger self would cry, seeing that I became a girl who no longer believes in fairytales. She would ask me about my charming prince—the one I used to talk about, the one I told my childhood friend only existed in fairytales. And I would tell her we still haven’t crossed paths. But this… this is not gone yet.
Written by
Sisi123
15/F
Jan 6
Jan 6, 2026 at 5:28 AM UTC
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