Life at 24

I’m an insecure lover, I can admit it.


I often quit it.

Loud but usually soft.

Warm and sometimes lost.

A bouquet of complexity.

I wear my emotions,

rather than

store them

inside me.

Bury them; I cannot hide.

I’m too honest

not to say

what’s on my mind.

I unpick everyday like it’s a jumper,

a game to play.

A question, pass another

dog, walk a little longer. Spot a Frog.

Return a smile, walk

single file.

See a tree that dances like a child.

Then stop.

sample the sky.

It’s as crumbly as

fresh apple pie.

One bite

takes us closer to heaven,

closer to die.

To stay in bed would be a shame,

but some days you wake up


not quite the same.

Not all the time,

just once in a while.

You wake up and are reminded how unfair life is;

the taste vile.


you’re colourblind,

to a world that’s teal.

And the day goes on,

you wonder why

you can’t feel.

The human pursuit of happiness,

is put on hold.

Like a Sims Game,

it feels just too easy to get old.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I understand its direction.

At 24, I’m no longer 18.

I can face rejection.

I know the sun will follow

and find me

in another day.

But at times I do worry.

I can’t see what’s left

on my plate.

I’m eating in the dark.

Too sentimental; hand over my heart.

What if one day

I fill a house

will all these beautiful things.

Grow a few children,

wear different rings.

And then I wake up,

allergic to all the art?

My mind no longer open,

my heart


A door left open.

What if the pursuit of happiness is all a disguise?

A money making ploy, to stop us looking up at the sky?

To distract us,

rob us of our time.

Eat this, less of that.

At funerals it’s polite to lie, die.

Just don’t get fat.

Buy this, this, none of that.

Buy free-range eggs over caged.

Don’t get COVID,

act your age.

What if,

threaded into our clothes,

wedged between our toes,

is the reality that no amount of beautiful days can hide?

I know, I’m too young to think about such reasons.

I’m a few chapters in,

a handful of seasons.

I’m barely in the oven yet,

my skin only just crisping.

I’m too young

for a mid-life crisis.

Too young

to think about time;

know about good wine.

I use to be a child,

only a blink ago.

Parts of me think

I’m still 8 years-old.

I’m just holidaying in my mother’s clothes.

No need to tell her though,

I doubt she cares much to know.

Life is long and yet

at times,

it feels like a sprint.

It’s more disappointing than not.

People fall away

like jumper lindt.

Days are simply seconds,

weeks like months

in a rush.

Years go quicker with furry friends.

Their lives,

never quite long enough.

You can sleep, drink, grieve through days,

weeks, years so easily;

in blinks.

It’s scary.

Hoping one day when you die,

it will happen peacefully.

No ifs, buts or whys.

The funeral song a symphony,

with not one

dry eye.

Because that’s why we’re here right?

To go to bed one night,

and wake up

in a different world.

One where we’re swimming,

back to being a young girl.

Or perhaps,

we’re flying

over the dessert sky.

Tangled up

in the purple and pinks.


through the eyes of a sphinx.

Standing at the top

of ochre sand piles.

Counting all the dots.

The way some people use ‘maybe’, instead of full stops.

Or maybe,

we’ll simply be dead and still.

And like oil and water,

our mind and souls

will peel.

It’ll be time to go,

and we’ll ask Allah for the bill.

Our souls to leave our bodies,

with a final kiss goodbye.

Living in you, it whispers

was like tasting apple pie.

Lots of sugar,

but never too sweet.

Sometimes bitter,

never neat.

Not so spicy,

usually warm.

But always delicious,

like an Oreo Storm.

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