Time is growing shorter,
or so it seems.
Every day I see someone more and more foreign
staring back at me.
My sisters are changing,
and my friends.
Our hands are roughening from our labors
and our bodies are making room
for children
and our hearts are breaking
and scabbing over until
scars and callouses
make us tougher
inside
and out.
Sometimes I want to scream and cry at
the stranger in the mirror,
or to God,
or to time itself:
“Please slow down, please stop, if only for a moment, I need more time I need more time I need more time.”
But then,
I realize in moments of clarity,
how privileged I am
to watch myself
and my sisters
and my friends
wither and age.
How lucky we are, to know we always walk with
one hand holding Death’s and yet we smile
and sing
and dance
and wither
and age.