When Do I Turn Brand New

When do I turn brand new?
Does it happen all at once
poof, she’s gone,
like the flick of a magician’s wand?

Or is it gradual,
unnoticed
until one day you look back
and see the distance?

Like staying with my aunt
who lives next to the freeway
the first night,
the roar is all I hear.
It rattles the glass.
Then one day,
I realize
I don’t hear it anymore.

When do I turn brand new?
I can feel something coming,
like a rubber band pulled tight,
waiting to snap.
Taut. Trembling.

My skin feels one size too small.
Too tight.
Not right.
Like I might split at the seams.

I’m tired of the waiting room,
watching names get called
that aren’t mine.

They’re already celebrating
at the finish line
while I’m still
at the start.

When do I turn brand new?

Or maybe it never happens.

Maybe “new”
is just an illusion
a layer laid over
what was always there.

Like rings in a trunk,
hidden beneath
the same rough bark.

So maybe I don’t become new.