Do I have the right to feel
so much older than I used to?
After all, it hasn’t been that long
since I felt entitled
to define myself as young.
And it’s not about all the scars
I try to wear with honour;
nor about the happy endings,
once set aside for an undefined future
and already marked with the first traces
of mould; nor even that
that juicy-looking red apple
turned out to taste like sauerkraut
(not that I don’t like sauerkraut anyway).
The problem is that I don’t know
who this competition is against:
me from twenty years ago
or twenty years in the future.
hidden pilcrow 