My ears finally grew. I’m not beaming about that. They were once tea party
dainty––peach-fuzzed petit fours
like they’d forgotten to grow with the rest of me. Sustained relics of my youth,
like my vagina. Now I’m terrified
of losing that too. Pristine, floral pretty, incomprehensibly mild and sweet to
taste. Fiercely gripping. Inoffensively
mute like a laughless babe. No drastic color or outward formation, content
to please us all. It really is a sight,
softly pink and white. What it does! I’ve rather ripened into having this.
This week, I found a gash across my
brow. Mom calls it a memory in my skin. The nucleus of my discontent,
she forwards, is stress. Just help
me undo the wrinkle. In this moment I’ve more faith in my only vanity than
my face. Sure, they’ve both been
through a lot, but at least the one has no tell. Really––let’s not talk about babies.
My ears grew, and I’m sure if I don’t
get back to meditating stat, they’ll never card me again. So: this is what it’s like
to be twenty-late? Milk and rosewater,
a tiny Victorian cherub stomping her feet in the Christmas snow.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Onefaithlove is a 26 year old writer and student at Columbia University. She has given readings of her poetry alongside Paul Muldoon and Cathy Park Hong. Previously, she has studied poetry under Jeffrey McDaniel at Sarah Lawrence College. Raised and trained classically as a vocalist, songwriter, and composer of tone poetry, she has cultivated an eclectic artistic voice. She lives in New York City.