to have once been some other age

and now smelling cigarettes on my fingertips as i look out at the old north end of my girlhood. is there a feeling as ripe as knowing you won’t ever have that smooth of a forehead again. as knowing that it doesn’t end here but in a way it will. my parents’ dogs will die of old age and in seven years my skin cells will make a new person. meanwhile i should grow my hair long enough to tie a swing under my convictions before it all falls out: it’s so confusing sometimes to be a girl and to try to understand each unwavering day. i ache for every small girl who has ever lived in my organs, twisting, scraping, for the right side up.