meditations on a sixteenth birthday

​--one--
what does it mean to grow up?
my skin is still soft and red;
i still carve hearts
in the fog of shower walls.

--two--
they say the primordial was 5 inches deep.
sometimes i feel like i am 6,
reaching towards a world that hasn’t learned to love me yet.
i pray i never tire of being
the kind of person everyone must adore.

--three--
i got my driver’s license this summer
(just like we always talked about?)
so please tell me how i ended up here,
going 98 on a rainy interstate.
this aching in my head won’t end
knowing you’ll never love me the right way again.

--four--
my hair is newly cherry-flavored;
i couldn’t stand being who i was anymore.
do you like how i look with metal in my tongue?
re-invention is the lie i will never stop telling
until i am everything i have ever envisioned.
would you believe me if i told you?
i’m still crying over heartbreaks ten years old.

--five--
i stand on the gray of an ash-tiled floor
and see myself bathed in sunlight.
each day i ask why i continue to act
as if my steps are consequential to the fabric of the carpet.
look now and remember you are more than a bookmark,
though you can’t see where the proof of your pages lies.
you are the story i beg for each night
right before i close my eyes.