Nov 2016
You always try to break out of your crib.
Spend childhood somewhere between land
and water. Save shells. Dig up dead animal
bones. Hide them. Blow bubbles with
now absent brother.
Fall. A lot.
Fall. Fall. Fall. Pick the scabs.
Break open again. Pick.
Repeat until scarring is complete.
“Rub some dirt on it.”
Dad tells you that everything dies
someday. So you find comfort in all things
morbid. You want to be an archaeologist.
He shows you The Doors, The Beatles,
The Who. You are raised right.
Chase the handsome boys around
during recess. Teach yourself how to
read. Secretly peek at encyclopedias.
The anatomically correct bodies
in the back. Hide them. Giggle with the boys.
Travel to Vietnam with your mom.
Understand your spirituality while climbing
thousands of feet to temple. Understand
your culture and where you came from.
But you still don’t know who you are.
Write stories. About everything. Illustrate them.
Collect fossils, crystals and minerals. Spend
Sunday mornings eating ice cream and playing Xbox.
Pass notes with the boy. You play softball, because
he plays baseball.
Watch MTV. Dad said not to. Tilt your head at
Music videos. Hide them when
he walks by. Sneak Mom’s makeup
so you look like the girls in the
videos. You don’t.
Stuck in Old Saybrook, Connecticut. Still.
You try to wiggle your way into your identity. So you
always evade parental supervision. Stop
testing the waters and begin full fledge fleeing
into the swells.
Meet boys, like them, kiss them. Love one.
You fight. You steal a little. You lie a lot.
Stay up. Sneak out. Get caught. Do
drugs, hide them. You are way too young.
You are 13.
Skinny dip. Sell ****. Make honor roll.
Create your secret life. Decide you know
everything. But you learn it all the hard way.
You get arrested. You decide you
don’t know anything at all.
Get expelled. Your secret life is
not so secret.
You learn your way around
the razor blade from the medicine cabinet.
You aren’t who you thought you were.
Attend mandated therapy, community service, tutoring.
Drug test. Court date. Drug test. Court date.
Regret nothing. Except for
making Mom cry. The boy comes over
to share pineapple pizza. Your favorite.
Decide you want to be better. You
cut the ****. Your report cards still
marked with A’s. This is your ticket back
into the school system. You get your first job.
Pass your last drug test.
You scuba dive. You travel. You meet new people.
Cover your walls with art, and maps. Fill your bookshelves.
Inherit Mom’s reading habit. Live by Dad’s movie collection.
You write. You graduate High School.
You get three more jobs.
Old Saybrook, Connecticut. You’ve spent your
life somewhere between the land and water. You collect fossils, save shells,
pick scabs and skinny dip. You try to wiggle your way into your identity.
You visit the boy on Thursdays. You hate MTV. You are 20 now.
You regret nothing, other than making Mom cry.
Spend childhood somewhere between land
and water. Save shells. Dig up dead animal
bones. Hide them. Blow bubbles with
now absent brother.
Fall. A lot.
Fall. Fall. Fall. Pick the scabs.
Break open again. Pick.
Repeat until scarring is complete.
“Rub some dirt on it.”
Dad tells you that everything dies
someday. So you find comfort in all things
morbid. You want to be an archaeologist.
He shows you The Doors, The Beatles,
The Who. You are raised right.
Chase the handsome boys around
during recess. Teach yourself how to
read. Secretly peek at encyclopedias.
The anatomically correct bodies
in the back. Hide them. Giggle with the boys.
Travel to Vietnam with your mom.
Understand your spirituality while climbing
thousands of feet to temple. Understand
your culture and where you came from.
But you still don’t know who you are.
Write stories. About everything. Illustrate them.
Collect fossils, crystals and minerals. Spend
Sunday mornings eating ice cream and playing Xbox.
Pass notes with the boy. You play softball, because
he plays baseball.
Watch MTV. Dad said not to. Tilt your head at
Music videos. Hide them when
he walks by. Sneak Mom’s makeup
so you look like the girls in the
videos. You don’t.
Stuck in Old Saybrook, Connecticut. Still.
You try to wiggle your way into your identity. So you
always evade parental supervision. Stop
testing the waters and begin full fledge fleeing
into the swells.
Meet boys, like them, kiss them. Love one.
You fight. You steal a little. You lie a lot.
Stay up. Sneak out. Get caught. Do
drugs, hide them. You are way too young.
You are 13.
Skinny dip. Sell ****. Make honor roll.
Create your secret life. Decide you know
everything. But you learn it all the hard way.
You get arrested. You decide you
don’t know anything at all.
Get expelled. Your secret life is
not so secret.
You learn your way around
the razor blade from the medicine cabinet.
You aren’t who you thought you were.
Attend mandated therapy, community service, tutoring.
Drug test. Court date. Drug test. Court date.
Regret nothing. Except for
making Mom cry. The boy comes over
to share pineapple pizza. Your favorite.
Decide you want to be better. You
cut the ****. Your report cards still
marked with A’s. This is your ticket back
into the school system. You get your first job.
Pass your last drug test.
You scuba dive. You travel. You meet new people.
Cover your walls with art, and maps. Fill your bookshelves.
Inherit Mom’s reading habit. Live by Dad’s movie collection.
You write. You graduate High School.
You get three more jobs.
Old Saybrook, Connecticut. You’ve spent your
life somewhere between the land and water. You collect fossils, save shells,
pick scabs and skinny dip. You try to wiggle your way into your identity.
You visit the boy on Thursdays. You hate MTV. You are 20 now.
You regret nothing, other than making Mom cry.
