growing up
Sure, I would rather be awake than asleep
I would rather lay beneath the vast infinity of
The sky than
Beneath the peeing paint and
Faded glow-in-the-dark stars
(Dollar tree, of course)
Of my bedroom ceiling -
But someone has to act first, and it’s
Not going to be me.
Think of any Messiah,
Any Jesus Christ or
Greta Thunberg, I guess.
They ended up how?
Nails in palms,
Palms full of blood,
Pressed to a cross
Or ripped to shreds by the press.
You’re crazy or you’re fake,
Or you’re a rude, radical bitch.
So yes,
I will grow older and
Let my will be taken away day to day
I will shift from watering cans full of flowers
And handfuls of ferns
And dark, earthy moss to
Things that force me to laugh
(Because I’ve forgotten how)
And things that make me feel numb
(Because nothing is worth feeling anymore)
It’s either shoot or get shot,
So I am launching a preemptive
Initiative to do nothing,
To stand with my palms pressed
Against the cold glass of my window
As I watch my
Disoriented friend back his car
Over the garden
I planted when I was nine,
Trying to ignore the sunlight
And the way the whole room smells like spring.