on the cusp of 17

two nights before I turned 17

on the cusp of 17, you lay on the floor

with a girl you barely knew

yet loved anyways, and hugged him tighter 

than you probably should have, but also cried

a little, inside, when they sang what used to be

your favourite song - not that they knew - and 

you learned you could get drunk on things

other than alcohol, like hormones and

deafening music, but also on things 

like alcohol - like lots and lots of

expensive drinks that you paid for because

it’s your birthday and you love everyone

including that classmate you don’t really

talk to or know that well, who sent you a 

message at 2AM that made you cry

because it was all you needed to hear and

you are no longer afraid of the future

and what he said was your greatest birthday present,

but you learned you must be able to enjoy the present,

your dwindling freedom and naivety and 

innocence, your oblivion, like ozone, slowly eroding,

the artist in you is on life support,

but you waste her drawing pens 

on writing equations and essays, 

sounding older than you really are,

dressing older than you really are 

in short skirts, yet

cowering in fear from the men who

follow you at night but also

offer you potato chips and ask you

if you’re over 18, when you’re

actually not even 17

yet. So when are you ever ready

to transcend the verge, to 

take the plunge and 

grow up?