On Maturing
the wardrobe insists
that it’s 1996 &
the audience accepts this
I am cusping,
anger combusting
& my wrath
drains crimson
down the bath,
the walls are
coated,
in dream scrawl
my head rings
imploded
this is the next season of life
& it’s just as lonely
as the last one,
but this time
there are less
people around
& sounds
slip inside
one of my
many
neural openings,
disrupting my
able pathway
& what is this
growing up
anyway?
moonlight curses
me with memories
I question
because creativity
both hexed & blessed me
the old ladies
once told me
womanhood was a gift
& so I lived
in fear of it
destroying me
faulted for being female,
both exalted, damaged & frail
but laughing
ever awkwardly
at endless sexist vulgarity
to stay safe
& biting
brittle nails
to avoid needing
to run or escape
No more!
everything changes
at its own pace
I can no longer deny who I was made,
or the harshness of this day & age
I can tear
or turn
the page
Thistle Thoughts 