23 years

When I was seventeen I imagined myself at twenty-three to be an independent woman. I was going to be an artist in one way or another. I was going to be a writer or a starving writer at the very least. A cliche in a studio apartment with packs of Parliament Lights aside my trusty laptop. I was going to be in love with a boy by then, I knew that much, because I always am. I was going to be stylish and clever and cut through the world with my own rules.
I'm twenty-three today.

I made myself a writer, in whatever way I see fit.
I suppose you can call me an artist...

I'm definitely in love with a boy...

I suppose some days I'm clever, when the coffee is brewed right. Stylish, when the hours are favorable.

I didn't expect twenty-three to look QUITE like it does right now. I guess I've cut through the world with my own rules. Ever changing, ever evolving.

Today I am twenty-three.

My body has changed and so has my heart, both better and worse for the wear. Softer, some seams fraying, some spots calloused and worn, some hairs out of place. I have my health, I have my mind, I have some dance moves tucked away for a special occasion. I have friends older and new, silver and gold. I have a song or two. I'm still singing...

Today I am twenty-three.

And I still recognized the face in the mirror this morning.