In my twenties
(was that really so long ago?)
I knew the words of every song
that played on the radio.
I had my heroes
I was an avid reader, a zealous fan
In my twenties
I still believed in kindness of men.
At any given time
I had at least three best friends,
always somebody who understands
when I take a chance at love
and when it fails,
a shoulder to cry on
and all that it entails
cause in my twenties,
I still believed in fairytales.

In my thirties
my handwriting was replaced by font,
men were picking me up, and
I was picking up on what they want.
I hate to admit it, in my thirties
I was more receptive to what men need
struggling with my inhibitions,
always trying to concede.
It was a challenging time, but then again –
I learned so much,
even more than I’d wanted to, about men.
My thirties were spent burying dreams
coming to terms with would have beens
When finally they were through
I was compelled to put under review
my values, my feelings,
my whole world view.

Now I am in my forties
(to be more precise,
just a month ago I turned 44)
The forties have seen me making amends
forgiving lovers, burying friends.
And I gotta say,
this doesn’t feel quite right
it’s as if I ended up here
at the speed of light.
But nobody hears me
and what’s worse,
(now that I’m in my forties)
nobody even sees me.
Nobody cares enough to let me explain
that inside I am all fucked up
and still perfectly insane.

But the good thing about the forties
is that what others may think or say
has no bearing, holds no sway
over what and how and if I play.
And after that first, initial sting,
the forties are proving to be an upswing –
a perfectly opportune time
for me to do my thing.
So now all I have to do
to find my peace
is figure out what this
“my thing” really is.


Photography by Anka Zhuravleva

Alien, alienated. That's me.

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