ON YOUTH.

I used to get drunk with vagabonds and gorgeous bohemians,

Fall asleep in the grass like a pile of kittens,

Stay up all night watching the stars turn,

Singing folk songs with savants and men who painted nudes.

I was awful at dancing but I was never shy.

Poetry used to sizzle through my veins like voltage,

Strike down unsuspecting people at all sorts of times.

I collected holy scribbles on napkins, in notebooks, and on my arms.

I collected cuts, burns, and bruises, too,

most of which I didn't know what from,

Others from heartbreak, loneliness and shame.

I didn't care who I invited into my head,

Who saw my insides glistening in the moonlight,

Or who I worshipped with.

I didn't care who I loved, only that I was loved

And loved fiercely,

Hands clutching hips to make it to shore.

I only cared about the music pounding in my chest,

Doing god's work by experiencing life indiscriminately at 100 miles an hour,

Getting into trouble,

Word by word creating, never erasing or taking back.

I believed in fairies until I was 21.

I believed in soul mates, and karma, immortality, and self-immolation.

I believed in burning up like a monk protesting the war, even without a noble cause.

Setting myself on fire, just because I can.