Everything That Was Once New and Promising Is Getting Old Now

 

This too applies to me.

To us.

WeÕre getting old.

I wish weÕd put a sock in it, my generation and I.

Nearing our mid-twenties and Oh God, weÕre getting old.

This panicky realization plagues us like chest pains−

worse than chest pains.  

Eventually, chest pains are dealt with,

whether the dealing with entails death

or a rocky second chance.

Birthdays havenÕt been enjoyed in−

none of us can remember (DonÕt tell us our memory is failing now, too).

I know more of us than not who weep when the fated day arrives.

Tears are about the only thing we seem to agree on anymore.

I shed a tear the day I turned *insert age here*.

Ah, so did I, so did I!

We embrace one another as we weep and then we go back to

dragging one another down

in unoriginal ways.

Our parents, in their mid-twenties in the eighties and nineties,

some even in the early two-thousands,

did not concern themselves with getting older.

They were young

and their impenetrable youth

was all they knew.

They dated, they married, they reared the children

who became us.

Our wants have changed.

Our needs have changed.

We are getting older.

Our annual checkups remind us that we are more of them than ourselves.

Our bloodwork reminds us that our bills of health will not be clean for much longer.

The end is in sight.

The end has already been spoiled for us.

We donÕt bother to kick the seats of those moviegoers who ruin the ending halfway through.

WhatÕs the use?

WeÕre guiding ourselves there every day

with undying sureness.

There is no future.

If there is a future, then we already know how it ends.

 

 

 

The Ballad of the Stagnant

 

I will never get beyond the dreams in which

I will never get beyond the dolefulness of

I will never get beyond the way that

I will never get beyond when she

I will never get beyond when he

I will never get beyond when I

I will never get beyond

 

 

 

A Very Bad Thing to Be

 

You will begin to take comfort

          In the privacy of

Your own misery

          In there you are

Reasonably safe

          In there you are

Grounded by

          Little weights

That go ghost

          In the real world

In there you are

          What they only

Get halves

          And quarters

And tiny slivers of

          In there you are

None of them

          In there you are

Only you

 

 

 

On Hearing My (Estranged) Childhood Best FriendÕs Voice in a Snapchat Video

 

It is terrifying to hear you speaking in a manÕs voice.

You use the F-word now

and so freely.

You waste the F-word,

like I taught you to,

render it meaningless

with each frivolous upload.

 

Please donÕt grow up anymore.

I donÕt want to be a mother

and youÕre making me feel like one.

 

© Christine Naprava