all of my poems are starting to sound the same,
the exact same. i think you can tell
that i am not even old enough to drink.
but i am old enough to have sex, and to wander
the streets as late as i want. when you read these
things that i write,
i imagine how you will close your eyes and trace
the words, my frantic words teeming with panic-
and see a girl in green holding a flashlight for
fear of the empty spaces between the dark.
green because it is ironic, how i cannot
seem to care about social issues. protests. i
go to riots and immediately feel stupid. i want
to go home and read a book, curl up and drink
not even coffee, like all the crazy grown up
writers. slit my wrists and feel ridiculous.
this
is not where i am supposed to be.
i've heard you say, you don't seem lonely.
and when i cry i dream of being
simultaneously
inside god crafted time.
collecting comfort in pebbles of the past and
sticking them under my tongue as a
heavy weight precaution against
a cold and brittle future.
i can tell, i can tell even though i know i am not
old enough to be able to tell, that when i
pick up the telephone i will
be greeted by an inevitable future,
as soft and silent as a dead rabbit.
infested with nothing but cold.