My twenties never quite roared with excitement, they purred softly and contentedly on the occasions where I found a sweet spot. The nights were soft and warm when I had one too many whiskey gingers, just enough to accidentally drop glass number six on the hardwood floor as the band tuned in-between songs. They were bright and comforting on the nights we slept next to each other, one arm draped across your breasts, the other under your pillow, just shy of numb, a thousand tingling pin-pricks waiting to wake me up just before the alarm.
My twenties never quite roared with excitement, they yelped in pain as new people eagerly opened old wounds like Christmas presents. With wrapping paper spread over my ribs, I was practically asking for it, and no one could pass up an opportunity like that. I spent months looking for scotch tape and ribbon after she admitted she wanted to fuck other people, and that she’d gone ahead and tried it out without mentioning to me that we were no longer together.
My twenties never quite roared with excitement, the snarled viciously like a wounded animal ready to defend. It became easier to be a tiger than a teddy bear, keeping everyone at a comfortable distance and keeping my paws in pouncing position. Nothing could hurt if you didn’t stick around long enough for it to bite back. But there was never any excitement in playing with your food, and most nights I went to bed hungry and unsatisfied.
My twenties never quite roared with excitement, but I’m working on it.