I’m a medley of all the people who existed in my life,
A preempted cycle of vicious things:
The family disappointment disguised as an adult.

The sundial, the clock, the ruler…
Use them to measure my new version of anarchy,
Angst is dead, and suddenly, I’m the poster child for it in the postmodern.

I used to do things and get first place,
Now, I’m just another number in the casualty of Gen Z.
The spark kind of fizzled out, and you can’t wait to reject me.

I’m a premature and half-baked idea of the teenage dream.
I mean it; I haven’t been a kid in a while—
It’s getting sad; I’m obsessed with the wrinkles in my smile.
You’re bored of me before I can even speak.

I used to think that life was a movie,
But every time I say my line, you look right through me.
The heat is hellish, the pressure is on,
The economy is crashing, and you’re nearly gone.
I should adopt a new identity and be a different type of girl.

You see, it’s not that my language is foreign to you—it’s the fact that you won’t listen.
I’ve memorised the expressions you make to mirror them at parties.
Because everyone talks like you and thinks like you,
And if you were my first boyfriend, I’d have therapy to think about you.

Talking about the girl, being the girl,
Letting myself and other girls down to be king of the hill was ironic.
But that’s me and a version you praised to be iconic.
I’ll have to make amends… become a true feminist.
I could scream but the whole world’s deaf to the ballad of an awkward teenage girl—
Turned woman.

It’s karma ,it’s the correctional catalysts in my diary,
Spinning a sickening cautionary tale:
Sylvia Plath syndrome still exists and the female spiritus mundi goes unheard.











Photo by Mary Oakey on Unsplash