“Malum Malus”: A Journey Through the Disillusionment of Growing Up

Malum Malus

Age was rotten fruit and hard to swallow

after the development of my brain —

I spent half the day mourning my youth

and the other half circling the bathtub drain.

Typed it out a few times, “I can’t make peace

with how I grew up and still be sane.”

I had years to replay, chronologically — pause,

rewind with the same methods of a repetitive pattern

scab-picking gateway.

I feasted. I starved.

I tested if I had the will to live by holding

my face under water.

I operated on novice faith.

I sang. I danced. I drank.

I fucked. I fucked it up.

I threw parties. I showed off.

I learned. I cried. I died.

I broke.

I swallowed it.