Older.

When Childhood ends

I am not prepared for the future—

so many questions without answers,

so many doors I never learned to open.

I made my hair, bought a new shirt,

slipped into shoes too heavy for the ground.

I signed an offer, found an apartment

with walls that echo louder than laughter.

There is no turning back now—

time refuses to slow down.

For the first time, I am truly on my own.

Childhood ends without ceremony.

I strip the shelves of their books,

fold the fragments of who I was

into bags beside a blender—

as if closure could be sealed in plastic

But I cannot rewind.

The clock does not bend to longing.

Control slips through my fingers

like water I can’t hold,

like sand scattering in the wind.

So I stand at the threshold,

eyes fixed on a door I cannot see through.

The floor tilts like a roller coaster—

and the only way forward

is into the unknown.