#sisterhood - Hello Poetry

Girls, we’re in our twenties. And **** me, it feels like running barefoot through broken glass laughing so hard we forget we’re bleeding, faces streaked with makeup and tears, swearing to the world we’re okay when every step cuts deeper. We’re fine. We’re not fine. We’re twenty-something. Girls, we’re in our twenties, and it’s falling for men who study our bodies but never learn our names. It’s whispering “maybe he sees me” until we’re sick on cheap ***** our best friend dragging our hair out of the way, shouting, “He doesn’t see you, babe. He only sees himself reflected in your shine and he’s too small to hold the light.” And we laugh through the tears, because what else is there to do? It’s midnight secrets and 4 a.m confessions. It’s shouting “I love you, ***** across sticky club floors and meaning it more than any man will ever deserve. It’s kissing girls because we want to, because maybe we’ve always wanted to, and hearing the echo of our mother’s voice in our head whispering “That’s not what good girls do.” while our own voice screams louder, “Then maybe I’m not a good girl and thank **** for that.” Girls, we’re in our twenties. And families are breaking around us. Some of us grieve mothers who aren’t dead but act like they are. Some of us light candles for fathers who never got the chance to grow old. Some of us have families stitched together with friends, with women twenty years older who pour us wine and tell us, “Girlhood never ends, you just learn new ways to carry the scars.” We hold onto them because they’re the only people who remember the chaos we came from, the only people who laugh at the same stupid mistakes we keep making, and when the nights feel endless, we keep thinking maybe, just maybe, we’ll be okay. But the thought of thirty is always there, like a shadow at the edge of the streetlights, a quiet fear that we’ll wake up one day and realise all the nights, all the fights, all the reckless magic were slipping through our fingers while we weren’t looking. Girls, we’re in our twenties. It’s shouting at each other until our throats are raw, storming out of clubs, sending texts and ending phone calls. Crying in toilets we barely remember, then finding each other hours later outside kebab shops, voices cracking, hearts raw, “I don’t care what happens, you and me, we’re forever. I love you.” It’s the kind of love that bruises but also saves, the kind that hurts because it’s real, the kind that feels more like family than blood ever did. We grow up in fragments. pieces of the kids we were still clinging to our sleeves. The girl who scribbled hearts in her school notebook now scrolls dating apps at 2 a.m. The girl who swore she’d never drink is throwing up tequila in a stranger’s sink. The girl who dreamed of forever is learning forever might mean just tonight. Girls, we’re in our twenties. And the nights out are both war and worship. We line our lips in bathroom mirrors, share tampons with strangers, cry about dads who never came home, and sing too loudly to songs we don’t even like just because it reminds us that we’re alive. We are half mess, half church hymn. We are fragile and ******* invincible. We are learning how to live in a world that keeps telling us we’re too much and not enough in the same ******* breath. And girls, here’s the thing no one tells you. Girlhood doesn’t end. Not when you hit thirty, not when you have kids, not when you’ve buried your parents. Girlhood lingers in the way we hold each other’s faces and whisper, “you’re beautiful, do you know that?” In the way we dance barefoot in kitchens, wine stained and heartbroken, in the way we promise, “I’ll love you forever” and mean it with every fibre of who we are. Girls, we’re in our twenties. And we’re lost. And we’re hopeful. And we’re ******* magic. And one day, when we’re older, we’ll look back and say, we survived it. We survived it together.

0

Mar 9

Mar 9, 2026 at 10:42 AM UTC

Miaofficialx

Twenties, Told by a Girl Living Them.

Girls, we’re in our twenties. And **** me, it feels like running barefoot through broken glass laughing so hard we forget we’re bleeding, faces streaked with makeup and tears, swearing to the world we’re okay when every step cuts deeper. We’re fine. We’re not fine. We’re twenty-something. Girls, we’re in our twenties, and it’s falling for men who study our bodies but never learn our names. It’s whispering “maybe he sees me” until we’re sick on cheap ***** our best friend dragging our hair out of the way, shouting, “He doesn’t see you, babe. He only sees himself reflected in your shine and he’s too small to hold the light.” And we laugh through the tears, because what else is there to do? It’s midnight secrets and 4 a.m confessions. It’s shouting “I love you, ***** across sticky club floors and meaning it more than any man will ever deserve. It’s kissing girls because we want to, because maybe we’ve always wanted to, and hearing the echo of our mother’s voice in our head whispering “That’s not what good girls do.” while our own voice screams louder, “Then maybe I’m not a good girl and thank **** for that.” Girls, we’re in our twenties. And families are breaking around us. Some of us grieve mothers who aren’t dead but act like they are. Some of us light candles for fathers who never got the chance to grow old. Some of us have families stitched together with friends, with women twenty years older who pour us wine and tell us, “Girlhood never ends, you just learn new ways to carry the scars.” We hold onto them because they’re the only people who remember the chaos we came from, the only people who laugh at the same stupid mistakes we keep making, and when the nights feel endless, we keep thinking maybe, just maybe, we’ll be okay. But the thought of thirty is always there, like a shadow at the edge of the streetlights, a quiet fear that we’ll wake up one day and realise all the nights, all the fights, all the reckless magic were slipping through our fingers while we weren’t looking. Girls, we’re in our twenties. It’s shouting at each other until our throats are raw, storming out of clubs, sending texts and ending phone calls. Crying in toilets we barely remember, then finding each other hours later outside kebab shops, voices cracking, hearts raw, “I don’t care what happens, you and me, we’re forever. I love you.” It’s the kind of love that bruises but also saves, the kind that hurts because it’s real, the kind that feels more like family than blood ever did. We grow up in fragments. pieces of the kids we were still clinging to our sleeves. The girl who scribbled hearts in her school notebook now scrolls dating apps at 2 a.m. The girl who swore she’d never drink is throwing up tequila in a stranger’s sink. The girl who dreamed of forever is learning forever might mean just tonight. Girls, we’re in our twenties. And the nights out are both war and worship. We line our lips in bathroom mirrors, share tampons with strangers, cry about dads who never came home, and sing too loudly to songs we don’t even like just because it reminds us that we’re alive. We are half mess, half church hymn. We are fragile and ******* invincible. We are learning how to live in a world that keeps telling us we’re too much and not enough in the same ******* breath. And girls, here’s the thing no one tells you. Girlhood doesn’t end. Not when you hit thirty, not when you have kids, not when you’ve buried your parents. Girlhood lingers in the way we hold each other’s faces and whisper, “you’re beautiful, do you know that?” In the way we dance barefoot in kitchens, wine stained and heartbroken, in the way we promise, “I’ll love you forever” and mean it with every fibre of who we are. Girls, we’re in our twenties. And we’re lost. And we’re hopeful. And we’re ******* magic. And one day, when we’re older, we’ll look back and say, we survived it. We survived it together.