Adulthood

An Intoxicated Storyteller

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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