In ten years...

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.