Reverse Nostalgia
To be 22 is to suddenly understand
why my parents loved the smell of petrol,
the taste of cashew nuts,
the morning sun on an early rise.
I am 22 and I feel everything and know nothing all at once.
To yearn for the voice of my mother
calling us down for tea,
or the softly goodnight from my sisters’ bedroom.
To be 22 is to wear the clothes my childhood boyfriend hated,
and dye my hair the colour my father disapproved.
I am 22 and my life circulates around my friendships–
I am the women I surround myself with.
I love my own company and I finally want to listen to new music.
Being 22 is to write every thought I pose
and store them messily,
because my memory is becoming ephemeral.
I long to see my 12 year old self
in the way I apply my eyeshadow with my finger,
the hands with which I fold corners of pages,
the passion and messiness with which I paint.
It is to look in the mirror and discern
when my face grew into what it always wondered it would be.
I am 22 and I knew more back then than I do now.
The world is so much smaller to me now,
and yet at 22 I could never feel confined.
I am 22 and it is a privilege to feel
in the intensities in which I do.
I am 22 and I no longer seek a man to tell me
which tattoo to get,
how I should style my hair,
quit doing my eyeliner like that,
why do I walk in that way,
what is up with my laugh,
I need another hobby,
stop talking so loud,
I’m too much.
I am 22 and I love to be too much.
