Maturity stood before me,
its gaze sharp, cold,
like the quiet silence that swallows the room.
It had no mercy, no softness,
just a weight that pressed into my chest.

I tried to reach back,
to find the carefree me,
but the hands of time pulled tighter,
and Joan, the one who understood,
was slipping further away.

I whispered, "I need her.
I need to feel that light again."
But the silence only answered with a heavy,
unforgiving laugh.

Maturity spoke,
its voice like a command:
"You don’t get to go back.
You don’t get to undo this."
I wanted to scream,
to tear the world apart,
but it held me in place,
its grip unshakable.

The child inside me,
she still stirs sometimes.
I see her in the laughter of a stranger’s child,
in the freedom of a moment that’s too brief.
But Maturity tells me to ignore it,
to bury it deep beneath the weight of the present.

I asked once,
"Why must you take it all?"
Maturity only stared,
its eyes empty and distant.
"There’s no choice," it said,
"this is who you are now."

But there’s a flicker,
a quiet hope that stays hidden,
deep inside where Maturity cannot reach.
Maybe one day,
when the weight is not so heavy,
I’ll find the child again.
But for now,
Maturity stays,
and I walk in its shadow.