december calls me seventeen
and asks what I have for this year's show and tell.
let this be my year of patience.
the silence before the storm,
the chapped bleeding before I unleash my mother's red lipstick;
the red of which I was born.
let this be my year of mindless daydreaming.
the back and forth of the pen between my fingers,
the staring out of a window at nothing and at everything.
let this be my year of finding
myself, my mind, my audience.
even if it means hiding behind purple nail polish and split ends
scribbling scribbling scribbling scribbling
and staying up with the stench of stale coffee or loneliness.
all this just so the next year is a little bit more.
it's called growth, you see.
let eighteen be for dancing bare feet.
let eighteen be for living.
