Young Adult

I should never be too busy to write, but because of the constant work flow, I’ve had to make concessions these past few weeks. Come on, I wrote about a salt shaker. I need to get back into the groove, shake my pencil as if it were my ass, and write, write, write. (Really, a salt shaker?) Anyway, my plan is to find more sources of inspiration. But for now, a glimpse of my constant excuse, which remains more persistent than writer’s block:

My eyes start shutting around 3 p.m., weighed down by a small lunch and large paperwork. I wrench them open with my fingertips and then breathe hard. I’m exhausted. My body, silently, screams. Knows I have class after work, that I won’t get home until after 10 tonight. Curses with words like “go home” and “you do too much.” Blasphemy. When else is my life going to be lived, I say. When? My body sort of quiets, slapped by the realization that I’m finally in a good place, a safe place.

Then it hits me.

I’m an adult. I’m supposed to file taxes and eat fiber. I’m supposed to pay my rent on time and purchase coffee and a paper before heading into work. I’m supposed to wear high heels and business skirts, nude stockings and ironed pants. Life, I’m totally screwed, you hear me? My roommate chuckles at my inability to properly use an iron. I hate coffee. My dad’s guy files my taxes for me. Adult, my butt. I’m like an adulteenager—I’m only halfway there.

An on-the-spot poem about childhood vs. adulthood:

I would rather be
a happy child
than a sad adult,
to act my shoe size
rather than my age,

to tell people I am 7
and a half,
that I’ll be 8 in November,
lifting the knuckle of the middle finger
upward next to two others to make 3
plus 5.

And then I’ll wake,
birthday candle wax hardened
on the tabletop from yesterday,
to the knowledge that I’ll be 7
and a half
or 8 again next year,
depending on the type
of shoe.


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