Feminine Young

When I was eleven I’d wake myself up every morning at 5:45, slide into the kitchen, make myself a cup of french vanilla tea with a whole lot of honey, sit in the dark of my parents old living room, wait for the sun

(Sometimes I’d sneak onto the computer & write another email to Mitch Albom. But mostly I’d stay sat on the sofa & enjoy the quiet of living in that space of day before the day has actually begun)

When I was in high school I slipped down the stairs & through the halls. Weaving in & around the other students.

I’d bite my nails in Chemistry & show up late to Algebra & sometimes always do my homework & sometimes never do my homework & always stay quiet & always stay small

When I became nineteen I became nineteen.

I drank a whole lot & said a whole lot & did a whole lot

& you’ve only known the post-party made-up booze-soaked bones of the girl I can be.

& every time I open my mouth a blue jay flies out & you grab it by the throat.

You have only known the young me who acts her age & doesn’t think much about it.

You have been taught that a girl can only be so pretty so loud so very, very drunk if that part of her frontal lobe where reasoning and self-awareness live has been turned off.

There is an army of women in here. Well. There is an army of girls. Young girls. With wide eyes & raspy throats & bones that quiver in the light.

There is an army of girls in here.

Shaking under my skin.

Never staying quiet.

Never standing still.