The end goal,

their sole goal.

A shallow life

bereft of real soul.

They ask,

what it is like

to be old.

To be a postscript

to their prologue;

their ink soaked dreams.

These girls count

their age in fractions.

Eager to experience everything.

To wear it fast and loose.

 

‘Whatever…’

 

Blind to their

own beauty.

Individuality main-streamed

A Selfie redeemed

social popularity.

I was you

I tell them.

I was every uncertainty,

every weight,

the hormonal fate

of alien limbs.

Contorting my will

to hide my ignorance,

through a detached indifference.

Perfection is flawed.

I assure them.

I was you,

before I became me.