when i tell them
i’m not as infallible as in my youth
i expect they see me as another person
not the woman, the bad influence
the drunk, the slut, the poetry spewing
free spirit i played at for a while, but
this fragile girl beating herself up
and afraid of everything i used to laugh at.
i want to shake them, scream and tell them
i’m seconds from slipping back into that
little black tank top and tight jeans
writing and judging and dancing too close
laughing much too loud
staying out all night and forgetting my limits
i want to.
buuuuuuuut
i tell them it will all be ok.
i’m ok.
things happen the way they do
for a reason and i’m exactly
where i need to be and i’m
still writing.
but it’s all
in hindsight.
somehow i’ve always believed that
growing older would turn me more
brazen and independent.
i have been mentally burning my bra
since the first day i wore one.
now i’m planning to learn to use
(get this)
a crock pot.
