Eighteen
I remember how their mouths nipped at
me.
Fangs of wine-dusted petals, sharp.
Their thorny digits clenching my neck.
In the white hospital room, they come.
With white gowns that swirl like mouthwash.
The gleaming teeth that adorn the
uniforms.
Here, child. The flowers want you to
take this.
And I do, with the orange-peel pill bottle.
Lithium sucks the life out of my marrow.
My family, they do not know me.
And they do not care, to know me.
I gaze into Hades' little den of comfort.
When the shadows shift and shape,
I can see the hollowness of my future,
The futility of my unripe fruit.
Rotten, some of the apples, that's what
They all say. But I see the infant green
Yet, I also know it will never do.
At the hour, and season of eighteen
I slice into the cake of chocolate drywall,
And savor the aftertaste of adolescence.
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