I am 25.
This is a mood board, sprawling
Swatches of ambition, photographs pinned of places yet to see,
And pastel whispers of what feels true, but I think I like who I am becoming.
I drink an oat milk latte and walk around the house remembering who I was at 24—
Drafting text messages, never sent;
Creating worlds in fictional novels, characters that understood;
Spraying lavender on the pillow sheet, scaring the restless away.
I could write a million words about who I used to be, but I am 25.
I am floating and celebrating this chapter, feeling it expand and contract.
Everything has become clearer—homemade pasta, fuzzy socks, wearing lingerie, lighting cinnamon candles—(because) I didn’t love me.

I am 25. I’ve learned
To believe in my melancholy and that sometimes, things are out of my control; to taste the sweetness in the back of my throat, where my fear quietly waits; to turn pages, and write with fountain pens, and love myself in ways I have never.
I am 25 and I think I like who I am becoming.