"youth has no age." p.picasso

i've not ever really bought into the idea that one had to dress, [and when i say 'one', i of course mean everyone/woman/man/me] - for their age.

perhaps, once, and for a long time, this was a necessary trope. societal norms do have a way of keeping a corner of our minds under its thumb.

at 20, you're young! & fresh! baring skin from here to there is proof positive that you are indeed, finally, ripe for the picking.

at 30 - it begins. a contradiction between finally understanding the power that your body yields - but squint, and you'll see how quickly that confidence fades - in the clues you start to see around you. just as quickly as you bared it all for that one hot minute, you wonder if it might now be time to cover it all up again. babies, gravity, your mom, and time - they take a toll.

then, hold me, you land flat on your ass in your 40s - left in the muddle between what your mind & heart keep telling you; show it all with no remorse/you no longer care/cover it up and make it snappy - it's all gone pear-shaped - literally and figuratively.

meanwhile, your mind keeps leaving a trail to your youth - and the nostalgia, it feels like comfort, like home. those creepers and cloaks, tattoos and sweaters - so oversized to keep all sorts of nuts, berries, and small children under the age 9, safe and warm.

instead of feeling that i might not dress for my age, i've realized it's not at all regression - it's just me. fully formed, i am, i was, and will be... this. this version of myself i've known for so long.

i was always her - i've just come back to her. 20/30/40.

creepers, tattoos, winged-liner and all.