the last five years ravaged me
without my consent 
and I was too sad to notice.
this year i’m going to be happy if it kills me because
somehow the slow ache of early adulthood failed to.
i was cocooned in my own melancholia but I didn’t
emerge a butterfly, i just emerged
older, with wrinkles i never thought i’d have
with clear eyes who still beg for the thrill of wind 
whipping my tears through crows feet
and more than anything, a body that wants to be loved. 
if i can’t outsource it i’ll have to start at home.
i’m going to care for this body like it’s the last one 
on earth and maybe along the way somebody else 
will worship it.