“I don’t care if you wear your hair
like young David Cassidy or Demi Moore in Ghost.
Though, I like it longer ‘cause
you look a little funny when
you’re grabbing at nothing while
you’re screaming palindromes in the dark.”
In another life I
was named after Jeremy Finch.
I’m defined as “renegade.”
I’ll hit Mister Radley’s door and
take off like I’ve got wings on my sneakers.
I’m not scared.
I can do whatever I damn well want to do.
Let’s play Grown-Up Truth or Dare.
I’ll make papier-mâché horns
and tie them to my head so when
I’m called a monster,
it might finally be true.
“You’re slightly insane, I think.”
(I think they’re right. I know it.)
It’s not because I write or
I’ve never felt alright;
I just don’t know how to walk without
leaving my shoes untied.
Now I’m squishing in my Chucks because
I dove into the deepest end
The life-jackets fell over and
I’m falling because I counted to 100 but
no one’s answering the name I call
when I look into the mirror.
“You just haven’t found yourself yet.”
But I’ve been here all along
and that’s always been the problem.