This is a truly wonderful poem, easy to relate to and well crafted.
It is not something that you’d ever dreamt of attaining,
when your life was an oil-pastel painting, with a few crayons
and sky-scraping dreams carelessly scattered, strangely watched over by
the chaotic combination of R. L. Stein and Enid Blyton. No, even
when the rush of hormones caused a vivid, painful alteration to the harlequin scenery and
to those scattered jigsaw pieces, you did not want to grow up.
It did not slap you in the face- the stinging pain lasted longer than that. Instead,
it devoured your being, your soul, and parts of you that had no identity- its presence
an epidemic creeping into your flesh, celebrating the grand descent
in every scandalous step. No, adulthood did not arrive with the blood between your thighs
or the prickly hair along your jaw. You knew it was here- when you saw a monster on the other side
of the mocking…
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