They say that age is just a number.


It is a wall;

a blocking force.

A deceptive tool used to manipulate and measure knowledge.

You’re twenty seven.

I wonder what that even means.

I’ve seen more in life than nineteen years could ever offer.

I’ve indulged in the epitome of happiness,

and I’ve tasted the burning spices of love;

Misguided by false expectations for a woman my age.

I’ve drowned with agony and swam with fear.

I danced with death and kissed the blue bruises of pain.

I’ll paint you a thousand landscapes of the exposure within my brain.

I’ll write you a million verses of every emotion, of every feeling,

that I have greeted; that I have fleeted,

away from.

I am nineteen;

yet what the fuck does that even represent?

I give no consent.

I am a body of spontaneity, of life.

I am not a number, not a digit, not a fraction.

give me a mathematical affiliation, and I’ll choose a radical.

I am the breath of exuberance.


They say that age is just a number.

I say that it is a limitation.


Jump the fence.


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