It takes nine months most of the times
Seven or eight, the casual exceptions
It took me longer to become a baby –
25 years past my baptism, to be more precise
The blow of candles every late February
Was actually a sigh.
Before I was born,
I was taught how to spell
My first word was sorry,
The second was please
Along came techniques in seducing my mother to stay
Such as good grades
As opposed to my nullity few inches away
My bad math worthy of bad echoes on my face.
Throughout your discontent with me
I grew a couple of mimetic ears
Which later came to name me Magdalene
And Forrest Gump, only with balder tits.
Too close to my angles to grasp what they add
The simple right dress concept
Me, a shape no language could ever define,
A shape every language would rather side-step
With utmost contempt.
You pinned a pair of invisible needles
In each end of my lips
So they could fake laughter whenever they itched
For all those whom you knew or not –
My scars, the price of it.
25 is a long, lonely time
When all you can pull is you
Purity lost in a divided sight,
My heritage –
Divorces in and out.
But as I buy myself a BlueAir ticket
You lure me to prattle and do the bear
While handing me tea and ruby earrings...
Cancer has now become a sign of affection
And Sagittarius, as well
All four of them chipping in for amnesia.
25 is a respectable fraction
A quarter century from left to right
Dismissed, and then back in line
Late virgin goes lousy lay
Lapsed Christian, lapsed suicidal,
Lapsed would-be-s, too
Misdiagnosed by turned on shrinks
Constantly trading love for its misconceptions
Devising a cycle of steps in and out of insomnia
And failing at everything just to confirm first impressions –
It only took the irreparable for you to awake.
Now that the check writes 25 years,
And 2-pennies change,
Not to mention hopeless disgust in milk,
I am the apple of your eye
The sweetest baby in the world, at last.