When you grow old, life becomes more distant from yourself. You see yourself becoming more distant from yourself. That, is maturity. I am finding the eyes of the little boy at the MRT. Sparkling, small, staring right back at me. I am finding the child with the fat, soft body. When you grow old, life becomes more distant from yourself. I am almost doing it, I think. I am almost growing up. I am an adult. I no longer feel my hands. I no longer remember how its like to have hands with textures, hands on window panes, on faces. I am growing old, I think. I’m being less dysfunctional, I’m finally trying to stop thinking about your face. I am growing old, now am I proud? No. It’s what I am supposed to do. I know that you are happy now. I am happy now. I need to remind myself. I am forgetting things. (funny). I am learning how to scream and be angry at people. I am learning how to be angry at myself, not merely out of righteous indignation. I am growing old now, I am feeling grown up things, I am feeling grown up things. The more I see this world the more I know that this world is not I wanted thought it would be when I was young not a story of boy meets girl, not the story of you marrying me, not the story of boy girl, naked in a room together, forever (naked, not sexual, but I love you. This is the most comforting image in my head and so I keep on returning it. I’m sorry. I know that it is wrong. I’m sorry, I know that it is wrong and I should nt be doing it but it is the most comforting image in my head. hands, when we were angry, hot and sweaty. Will I ever fall in love again? (I have problems) Stop idealising my problems. Put your hands on your feet, feet on your hands, ceiling on your head, head on your ceiling, hands inside your mouth, your mouth inside my hand, little hands and big hands and hand and hands all over, little hands and big hands go away go away. I put my smile on my teeth, my teeth on my smile I see the words in plastic bags, plastic bags in poetry, white skirt in the dancing little thing floating, floating, red scribbly words are beauty and beauty and floating till a dog pounces and runs and chases till a dog screams a boy screams lies dead on the floor, joking. Till I blow on your stomach–hah, not your dick. Till I stop crying, stop acting like a little girl stop trying to find a Daddy who is not old sad and old and fat and depressed and dirty and disgusting and gross and eczema ridden. Everything passes, until it is gone. Until you are gone, one day like a speck of dust swept away, to be clean, made space for the new. After all, aren’t we merely–propagation of DNA?