Tissue after tissue got tossed in the bin, scrunched and wet. I had grown, in ways I didn’t even know. That innocent, spotless face had gained lines from events it didn’t expect life to offer; dark spots from days I had the leaving-the-door minute as the only time in front of the mirror; pouched eyes from nights burnt away in front of fat books. I didn’t care to look down; there was nothing exciting to see.
I’d gained resilience and tenacity with each new line that formed. I learned impossibility was a word I had to spell right because I was in fourth grade not a noun that defined any part of my existence and that I could get what I wanted out of life.
Though I had a better laugh the first night I heard my friend say age is a number, time had thought me that life is worthless until purpose is defined and lived out. It didn’t matter when a calendar kept a record as it was just another object of restriction.