I wrote this thing, and it is not very good.
I am thirty-four
and the years have muted my seaglass shine
but I have not been polished smooth —
I am roughhewn, stormworn,
firescarred and scorched,
all jagged margins and serrated edges
and I cannot shed the weight of these years
because this baggage doesn’t slough
(I cannot grind or burn or cut it away;
I cannot wear it like armor;
it does not insulate or fortify)
and I’m heavy —
heavy-hearted, heavy-handed
lead foot on the pedal
(slick pavement
no traction
wheels spinning)
and I think maybe my body is erupting
a mine-riddled warzone for Nature and Nurture
and I can’t breathe here
can’t stand, can’t move, can’t live here
and your questing fingertips
serpenttongue and eyeteeth
cannot crack my gnarled defenses
you can’t lick these wounds
you can’t ford this wreckage
and these scars are just scars to you
because you haven’t learned what I already know:
every life is a galaxy —
there are alphabets in these imperfections
you can read them like Braille
construct countless constellations
rove raised-relief replicas and find your place
I am thirty-four
(and I did not plan to stay this long)
I told myself
I was going to leave early
sneak out unnoticed
The Unapologetic INKDOG 