Being in your twenties is
sitting in your first adult apartment with
shitty wall décor and $5 wine. It’s
either panic or great change and
so many crying car rides at 6pm,
bandaging your heart with
twinkling fairy lights and TikTok. It’s
music and poetry and
syrup with a side of espresso,
a drunk cigarette
or a $10 ice cream cone. It’s
secondhand clothes and
living on pay day then
waiting for the comedown. It’s
drinking without discipline and
waiting for the comedown. It’s
loving hard and
losing your head and
hoping there’s no comedown.
Being in my twenties is
a messy room and mind. It’s
the fridge being empty on Friday and
learning how to take care of myself. It’s
taking for myself,
not worrying about you,
believing in me, and
wondering how mom did this. It’s
reinventing myself every 6 months,
the car battery dying every 3,
thinking about cutting off my hair, and
never doing it. It’s
thinking about changing life paths and
hoping I’ll get around to it. It’s
figuring life out and finding myself
every other Saturday
behind a sticker-filled journal,
pen and lyrics in hand, or
in a cubicle chair surrounded
by faded dreams.
Being twenty-two is
concert t-shirts with skirts. There’s
always a song playing in my head
and a hope that I’ll write one like it. It’s
despising my body or feeling
euphoria in its curves,
putting down my phone and
eating more that day. It’s
acne, needing new jeans, and
changing my razor blades
after too many bumps arise,
like red flags warning me
to stop caring about body hair. It’s
loving someone too much and
losing yourself a little just
to claw your way back to her. It’s
fine to be lost.
In this phase of life,
it’s preferred.
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