Abriatis

it's 12am on nine-eleven-twenty-twenty.
my name is rowan, and i am eighteen.
i have struggled. i have cried. i did not think i'd make it this far.
i did not think i'd do half the things i have.

to think that i will be a legal adult tomorrow.
i could vote. i could buy fish at petsmart.
i could apply to places like aldi's and tractor supply.

my birthday, for me, has always been tinged with sadness.

i watch the numbers tick up.
i read the headlines.
suny oneonta shuts down for the semester -
six hundred cases.

i go outside.
i see the masks, worn properly or not.
the spraying of hand sanitizer,

for the longest time, i struggled with myself.
i was always afraid. of almost everything.
i hid my fear with a loud attitude, with loud words
and actions that even i didn't understand.

i absorbed things like a sponge,

what is there to say? so very little
not already covered by another pen
by other words, more or less
sophisticated than mine.

i do not pretend that i am good,
nor that i am bad.
i'm just a writer. i write things.

i blend in.

i'm just another student. one with classes, with food, with a laptop, with things to do.
with friends.
we move in a bubble, all of us, together.

or perhaps we're separated,
walking alone, but that's fine.