☆ tiramisu

I play the CD I burned—with songs that shouldn’t have been mixed together—while I write pure nonsense, hoping it declutters whatever runs rampant through my head. In four days, I’ll be twenty-four, a year closer to a fully developed prefrontal lobe, yet I still get carded when I try to buy Newport 100s, even though I’m closer to thirty and further from eighteen. I no longer wear makeup to look older. Now, I use it to conceal where time is leaving its mark—my smile lines, the soft tiredness under my eyes… little reminders that I’ve lived through more than I’ll ever give myself credit for.