A century of fidgeting moths
Youth is a tantrum tree with leaves of slender luck
Youth is the carving of herds and the rumbling of mortal jars
Youth is the gathering of scabs and undeveloped ulcers
Swim in its lake of envy; endure its tide of broken egos
Youth is the squawking dog in search of a bone
How does it look to you?
Is it kept at the bottom of a well?
Could you wear it as a bow tie?
A glove? Is it crammed? Sweaty?
Does it make you feel flushed?
Youth is the ribbon dancer tied in knots
It’s a crystallized pleated skirt
Youth is the fertile flower axed by fear
Youth is a muffled secret too ripe to make out
Youth is the blacked out window with a fate behind
Youth is a waxwork trophy, a souvenir to be cherished
Youth is unfinished business, a blister to be burst
an endless trial, laminated to the arms.
Paris Morel is studying for an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Kent. She is currently writing her first novel – a surreal coming-of-age story. Paris lives by the sea, where she works part-time in a hotel owned by a mysterious man called Mr K. Her writing sessions are often accompanied by the German composer, Hans Zimmer. In heaven – or hell – she hopes to date Frida Kahlo, but has tons of writing to do before she gets there.