The Witchcraft of Adulting: Prose Poetry

They didn’t tell me growing up was nurturing houseplants of responsibilities and often failing to water them because you are binge-watching a DVD of nostalgia on nights when loneliness sublets you it’s house. They didn’t tell me growing up was walking in circles in my room past midnight trying to remember the face of my imaginary friend. Dimming in my mind in slow motion like the night mode of my phone.

Growing up is popping the bubble wrap of innocence with fingers that tasted the poisons of discrimination and privilege too soon. It is crushing the stars of your destiny to knit your own constellations from glow in the dark stars coursing in your veins only to realize that you have run out of batteries. Each night the glow of the stars dim, each night you take vitamins of hope from Pandora’s box before you go to sleep.

Growing up is fever dreams and whispering your mum’s lullaby to sleep, growing up is choosing which choice will lead to fewer fragments of your soul. It is doubting the existence of magic when spilling salt on the kitchen counter.

They told me getting older meant freedom, the world was a big bright place full of doors but they didn’t tell me growing up was watching all the doors close. Growing up was folding the paper planes of my dreams. It was helplessly watching little heart doodles on my hand transforming into tally mark tattoos of far-fetched dreams. 

When they unraveled my innocence with the vile hands, I saw. I saw the doors close because I had to file down my identity for people to accept me, because I carried the burden of my privilege in my backpack, because my body was under a microscopic study whose inference determined the key to the door. 

So, I learned to cry in silent screams behind closed bathrooms, you know like a grown-up. My eyes shimmer of folded paper plane dreams, my tears water the dunes of my passions.

I saw the moon staring at me. I don’t believe in magic, I tell myself. I don’t. I don’t. But I close my eyes and murmur a spell, just in case.

Witches know I need unfolding if that’s a thing.

//”The Witchcraft of Adulting”// Enigma

Copyright © 2016-2021 Enigma. All rights reserved.

Picture Credits: Enigma (Inktober 2020 Art Day 13 Dune)

Art Inspiration: Inspired from this verse: “My eyes shimmer of folded paper plane dreams, my tears water the dunes of my passions.”

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