In ten years,
I want to live in a house
with walls the colour of coffee stains
that I painted myself
so you can see the mistakes.
I say it gives character
and no part of me wishes I was better at painting the walls of my home.
I live in the middle of nowhere,
where summer could melt ice
and winter could freeze it again.
I have a desk,
it’s tidy enough to sit at while I write,
and I don’t think my first draft reflects the quality of my final one.
My shelves are filled with my hobbies,
each organised to be pulled out and packed away with ease
and I don’t chastise myself for being a jack of all trades.
I have an art room where I paint and
maybe one day my children can paint in there as well.
The walls in here are splattered.
There’s even some blue on the ceiling.
I live close by my family and they visit many times a week.
A hammock sits in my backyard
and large trees dapple light on the soft, cut grass.
My body is covered in art,
mine and others.
A star on my wrist tethers me to my siblings.
My degrees hang on my wall and work is only a few streets away.
My hair is long
and coloured in odd ways.
My clothes all fit me perfectly
and I’m comfortable in my skin.
In ten years,
I am not frightened to be made of flesh and bone
nor of my brain in my skull.
In ten years,
I’m everything I am not now,
though I try.
I try to be here
when ten years rolls around.