when I was eight, I finally learned to speak
punching holes in walls and cussing out my schoolteachers

my language consisted of violence
painting every corner with my newfound sense of artistry

kick down until it makes much sense
picture only oh so clear
as vivid as the dreams I used to see

blackened walls, mother disapproving
diatribes all telling that i made up my mind.

when you don't have to pay to get into places (still)
and hide from the glares and dark stares
amidst the closet [redacted] fans
and the jerks who are insistently 'in recovery'
while you wish your new tattoos could swallow you whole
this is the 23 you never had
24 is the year you'll insist you've grown
27 is actually twenty-five-in-denial
29 is incidental like the dollar face masks you buy
and the cheap smokes you swear you'll quit tomorrow
that come in the containers which stack up in the corner of your room
like every looming future milestone you'll soon break