You told me once
I should calm myself down
For no one's good but mine;
That anger makes one old and antsy
And raged out moments age our bubble-soft hearts.
I look at the mirror after a good cry
The glaring absence of the glowing skin everyone talks about
Stapled with the new lines on my paper ash face
Pulls my fingers into a fist and it pushes itself against the glass
Thank God I am weak, it doesn't crack or budge.
I am so old, so old, so severely deathly tired and frustrated
Yet indifferent as if there is nothing else to life, nor will be,
Nothing to look forward to because I have let my life swallow me
Every additional year superimposed on the previous one.
My mother is worried that I worry too much
My mother is worried that I worry too much
About the wrong things.
I sacrificed my anger and gestated anxiety instead
Now you tell me. What else?