You said that thirty was the new
twenty
just like love was the new
war.
I failed to see the difference before.
For my birthday dress
I wore a bustle of mandrake root
to multiply my selves.
I didn’t wash, it was only going to be us.
I went barefoot and barefaced,
tied my hair like a courtesan I’d seen in a painting.
I let my breasts flop
into their new decade –
crab apples about to rot.
I considered the doors:
all those damn doors,
all of the years ahead
and wondered if I’d be better off dead.
I decided I would not.
You said thirty was the new
twenty
love was the new
war
Now I see that you
were different before.
Leave me to rot.
Leave me to rot.