to be young

and i'm sitting here,
gnawing my nails to thin pink brittle
twisting a stolen colored pencil with each finger,
one at a time, muscles twitching
to reach some distant mountain scape from my dreams
trying to ignore how my lens on reality
is cleverly omitted from every nod and smile
how the attention my numb conscience deserves
is notoriously stripped to the bone, because
i'm too young to know what's best for myself.
in the so-called safety of the so-called home,
the ancient familiarity and assumed forgiveness
brush over my voice in rich red watercolor
and I'm drowning, drowning, until
in the cookiecutter carelessness of the
obsessive, opressive, public, my voice
is silenced by the thunder of every other
seven point nine billion minus one
individuaks who would their power high in the sky,
out of my reach, and my words are
drowned, drowning, drowning.
they tell me to overcome that
sneaky, sneezy, sly, surreptitious,
hypnotizing, unreal whisper in my mind of
i know what's best for me. i know what's best
for me, pulsing to the rhythm of my heart.
screw what they tell me.
if no one else will hear my authenticity, i will.
when my nails grow back, i will peel away
your papery white skin, and i will become
the scaly violet monster, breathing fire
and soaking in your crimson,
each spark in my eye a reminder of what
the rage you spoonfed me has twisted into.
i am more phantom than human,
more plasma, wind, fire, earth, water.
my silence has culminated into this beast,
and only one reminant remains:
i know what's best for me.
i know what's best for me.