Untitled By Kiki Pape

This poem is a conversation—between past and present, between the girl I was and the woman I’m becoming. Over a simple coffee meeting with my thirteen-year-old self, I unpack the quiet heartbreak of growing up. She’s bold, untamed, and still full of contradictions: counting calories, dodging expectations, dreaming big. I see her clearly now, sitting across from me with chipped nail polish and a frappuccino, and I can’t help but admire her.

This piece is for the girls we once were, the women we’re becoming, and the strange in-between space we often forget to honor. It’s about memory, identity, and the quiet ache of self-recognition.

Me at Twelve Years Old

I invited a old friend for coffee today

I was about fifteen minutes late

 and 

She was about Twenty 

I called her up and she forgot to answer

She told me she was practicing a youtube tutorial 

that she will never post

Ripped jeans to piss off an uncle worn

Her skin was fresh and bare

Picked Raw at the sight

And

singular red target across her forehead

Nothing can hide what is plain to see

taking a sip of my skinny nonfat latte 

and her frappuccino

She pushed away the coffee cake and typed in her calories

She tells me she would never inhale 

and sip the poison of pressure

I say more like pleasure 

We both sat in silence

she glances down at her iphone 11 to see plans fell through again 

with foes guarded with lulu lemon

If her cards play out right, she’ll have people to tell her stories about

I almost recognize her from small jewelry box dancer 

Twirling  delusion

She assures me that she is too wild and friends will take another course

I hope she always dances

Most of all I'm envious of the girl sat in front of me

Both Sipping from an overpriced cup of coffee

The colors are brighter through her eyes 

Music seemed light until the music died

I’m only twenty two 

and she is only thirteen

But she is me