Poet's Archive

Being on Tumblr at 27 feels like slipping into an old hoodie you forgot you owned—still soft, still familiar, but smelling just a little off, like time left its fingerprints all over it. I scroll past teenagers crying about things I once thought would end me, and I feel this deep, infuriating nostalgia for the days when my biggest problem was whether I should reblog another sad poem about loneliness or just stew in my own misery like a proper little tragic protagonist. Now I’m married, paying bills, making grocery lists, and pretending I have my shit together while some 17-year-old on my dash is losing their mind over a breakup they’ll barely remember in five years. And I get so fucking mad because I *remember* being them. I remember thinking life couldn’t possibly get harder, that I was drowning, and somehow, despite all of it, I still had the time and energy to romanticize the pain. What I wouldn’t give to go back to the simple agony of it all, back when my suffering felt poetic instead of exhausting. When I could just scroll and scroll, and every post felt like someone reaching out through the void to say, *yeah, I get it.* Now? Now I get it too much, and it fucking sucks.

oh real and fictional older sisters, you'll always be tragic.