Here’s a short piece titled — written as a reflective, lyrical monologue. "Older 4 Me"
Older 4 me means: I don't explain my silences. I don't shrink to fit someone else's memory of who I was. I wear the years like a coat that's finally broken in — loose in some places, thin in others, but mine.
If not, I'll walk. Slowly. Proudly. Older. For me.
Sometimes I miss the reckless bloom of younger hunger. But I don't miss the begging. Not anymore. Now, I'd rather be too much for the wrong room than just enough for a cage I painted gold.
I'm older for me now — not for the version of me who once mapped out ages like milestones: By 25, clarity. By 30, courage. By now, peace. Peace didn't come. What came was a deeper kind of weather. Gray skies I don't run from anymore. Storms I sit through with a cup of something warm and a forgiveness I had to grow just to hold.
