You’ll be 34 this year, you remember as you take a sip of wine,
the same wine you drank before it was legal to do so.
You struggle to decipher which parts are yours still,
and which parts belong to the girl who indulged
Before her time.
You tried to paint the moon tonight, on the good paper,
it doesn’t turn out. You attempt to capture it on your phone.
Despite how clear it was, it just escapes you.
There is dust collecting in the corners of your dining room floor.
You tell yourself that real women have clean baseboards.
They don’t attempt, and fail, to paint the moon when their children fall asleep.
You admit that you have not met the standards of your mother.
She never looks at you with disappointment,
she’s just scared the others would never understand your heart the way she does.
The record on the player needs to be flipped over,
That’s a compromise you’ve made,
for being able to indulge in the past a little longer,
once again.
It’s 2 am, a bookmark for sleep, that’s when adults
are allowed to go home.
You clean your brushes under cold water,
make sure to turn off all the lights.
