You’re not yet twenty-one and
Alcohol doesn’t sit well on your smooch-swollen lips.

When you hold his hand too tight
Your fingers gets sweaty from palm-to-palm contact.

It makes you think of the fact you are 75% water,
Or maybe 60%, and how your eyes burn in front of the computer screen.

You’re not yet twenty-one and
The doctor says you’re anorexic (you had fast food for breakfast).

White sage burns your fingers black.
The full moon pulls salt water from turquoise and home towns.

Maybe you’ll never see the beach again,
Or run in the water with childhood, clothes sticking to your thighs.

You’re not yet twenty-one and
Every day you consider giving up the race to it.