The Death of a Teenager

i asked my mother once

through sun bleached and sea salted hair

while the heat hung lazily in the air

why it is that grownups sit and talk and laugh for fun

she said, “this is how the big kids play.”

and play we do

flirting and hurting

and screaming and running through fields that have long since been established as our stomping grounds

dressing up as monsters so much bigger and more significant than ourselves

aggressively justifying a generational lack

of peripheral vision

holding the whole weight of the universe on our skinny shoulders

teaching each other pointless, desperately vital things

through poisoned laughter

unaware of the bliss of a soul yet ungrown

kissing and killing

all tasting of the same blinding neon

making love in every single possible sense of the word

drawing and redrawing lines until they are all completely blurred beyond recognition

my god

how much you’ve grown

it is felt at thirteen

when your ribs vibrate with the power coming from your heart

pumping blood around a body that is permanently changing

and growing

and stubborn feet planted into the ground.

mud can be war paint,

if you want it to be.

it is present at sixteen

in the formulation of a well practiced and crafted coffee order

the bitterness no longer an unpleasant taste, rather a way to fill the space left behind by yet another sleepless night

it is smiling at you

on your seventeenth birthday

when you look down and notice the dirt under your fingernails for the first time

it is here at twenty

stroking my hair as i reclaim my skin as my own

making it mine again

taking it back from a stranger who thought they were allowed to move in.

and so it begins

a ceremony of black and white

every previous version of myself in attendance

a casket decorated in hearts and swear words

and anything else that meant we were leaving our mark

a casket

always just the right size

is lifted up

and the whole world

takes a breath