fifteen fits in my mouth

the same way now as it used to when i was seven but didn’t know it.

it fits like a poor man’s key in palace gates.

fifteen is less than the amount of types of headaches i’ve identified,
screwdriver & orbit & sour milk & throb. . .

i am not fifteen,
but whatever i don’t say at the breakfast table
between sips of orange juice.

i am a spine willowed with misty sleep,
an eroded crescent on my left shoulder. 

infatuation and observation,
doubt and deliberation.

i am knowing i can be so much more
than the floor of a 70s style bathroom & its ugly wallpaper,

and 

i would rather be a thousand things
before fifteen.