ancient wisdom from an adolescent

ancient wisdom from an adolescent.

look at you, my mother says. lately i’ve realized you’re growing up.

(as if up is a place or thing i can ever reach)

it’s a surprisingly sad thing to hear.

but all my years, that seems to be my job; only to hear

(might as well just be a pair of ears)

so i don’t say anything.

it is a thing i’ve acquired, with growing—not up, but older

a mastery of muteness; words left unspun, songs left unsung, me

left undone

(undone)

(undone, undone, undone.)

i cannot speak; my voice withers away and dies with fear, disuse, (and fear of misuse).

when i introduce myself, my name trips on my tongue

i stumble over the slurred sounds of my name

my clumsy words get stuck, dissolved, clog up my throat

panic builds up behind the clot

a magma pool of anxiety i’ve acquired with age

but sure. call that “growing up”, when

what you call “growing up”

i call “giving up.”

(giving up my hope,

giving up my dreams

resigning myself to a life of heartless work)

what you call “growing up,” i call

“growing tired”

(what you call “being mature,” i call

“giving in”)

what you call “growing up,” i call

i call

i—

…

i

i am so tired.

i am tired from my sixteen years,

tired of a world that has little love for me in it

and little promise of better days in it.

i am tired of the old fear that controls me day in and out stretching its wicked wretched claws

closing around my lungs, throat, heart

rendering me unable to speak, think

except for the panic that clouds my mind.

it has no place and yet it stays,

no face and it calls my name,

nights are when it’s worst;

the stars are too cold to drive it away.

i am tired of being held back by something that is only real in my brain. but then

but then

but then i remember that is not all that seems real

(and that is none that is real)

because then i remember

sometimes when i am with others the fear

shrinks away,

it is an oilbird,

afraid of the light,

lest it burn.

because sometimes when i see dakota in the hall

i latch onto their bag and they spin around and yelp with the surprise of someone who is happy to see me

or sometimes late at night stella sends an image or strange phrase i simply cannot stop laughing at (and neither can she)

or sometimes, rarely, i am quiet, on the edges of a group,

and the w

a

t

e

r

f

a

l

l

of the old fear pours down on

me,

(crushing

my skull)

and then

and then austin sits next to me,

folds himself up to match me,

and asks if i am ok.

at times then, i feel alive

and the fear is tucked away or laid down bare in front of them

away from me

it does not seem so big now,

with company to help me keep it at bay

friends to build a shield

and remind me,

there is so much more than this.

they are right.

(and so are you.)

maybe, when you say i am growing up,

you are right.

if by “growing up”, you mean

i grow more afraid

if growing up means i understand not all is good

and i am not invincible

like i thought when i was a child,

but that there is bad

(and i am some of it; and i am weak)

(so weak)

and maybe when you say, i am growing up,

you are right.

if by “growing up,”

you mean, i see all that is bad

but also, that i see there is good

(and i am some of it; and i have some of it) and i choose to continue to cling to life for the good.