nineteen for the last time

this winter i became comfortable watching my youth expire as i lay restless on this exhausted mattress. the stream of sand in this timer is thinning, am i to panic quite yet? when the last grains of sand become stagnant, obliged to gravity at the bottom of the glass vial will i be expired? a girl’s youth costs more than her male counterpart’s though mine seems to be burning through my pocket, and i cannot seem to care to hold on to it as i have it now. the advantage of youth is less than fascinating now, but is spectacular in longing. i will lose nineteen and with it i gain whatever cultural assumption we attribute to the numbers of ages that end in those four letters; repeating until they don’t. repeating until you’re to have grown up into someone: into yourself. i can’t imagine that in four months i will own the entirety of myself. i never owned nineteen. i doubled over my eighteenth year in hopes that i’d never have to leave, until i left and ignored caesarean characteristics. and so as i exit my teenage years i refuse to acknowledge the calendar as anything more than the numbers of an antique dictator. nothing more than constructs from a century i can’t help but not relate to. instead i find familiarity in the repetition of seasons, relating to patterns but not cycles: the circularity of continuous progression. 

Using Format