Editor’s note: This piece was first published in an online issue of the Dalhousie Gazette (issue 5, volume 153). The following version has one additional poem than the original piece.
doodles
i wonder what this whole growing up thing is like
the similarities between my old self and this hurried, charcoal sketch of a college girl
what it’s going to be when maturity is nothing but a receipt stashed away in my old knicker drawer
but. . .
i picture it’s going to be something like this:
last night i wiped off all my makeup
looked at myself in the mirror
squeezed the last drop of cheap mascara into a white towel
and yet
even without angry black eyebrows and dark eyeshadow slathered on like a quick response to a threat
. . . i still don’t
look like a kid anymore
don’t feel that soft innocence that makes kids skip instead of walk
as though they were jumping from one orange cloud to the next
sure my cheeks are still puffy,
but i’m sure some will eventually attribute it to meth and not youth
certain strokes in my face are not watercolour splashes anymore, but
lines
of
time
(which no bawl fest will ever wipe off)
dark purple surrounds my eyes like half-moons,
dusk perpetually imprinted underneath each eyelid
open wounds of seeing things as they are
i think i just learned too much
too quickly
shouldn’t have skipped the syllabus in my freshman year
that extra page on how to be alone
how to trust others
trust yourself
or better yet
read that glossary on how to hold back and not think the best of people too soon!
sure, lend them your trust, but don’t give it away like it’s mint gum!
but i guess it’s too late
and it’s all been for the best in the end
growing up is an illness that happens to even the best of us
and i can tell you about all its symptoms
twinkling
i believe we are born trapped in a perpetual state of forgetfulness where the white of our cracked bones
and the fleeting sprint of the clock always reminds us of hollow blankness
instead
of the colours of moonlight
our stories aren’t as empty i promise
no one is the sequence of numbers they dialed at three a.m.
the childish shake of their shoulders as they cry their guts out on the phone
nor are we
the promises we made with our glasses spilling
of champagne and illusions of grandeur
it’s not me, dear
that girl you saw under the silver disco ball on that forbidden December night
not me,
the one you saw under the pale glow of the waiting room at the doctor’s
(my heart cracked not in two but three)
we may have existed during these moments,
but we are not monochromatic snapshots
of highs
and lows
i don’t follow any religion except the doctrine that says we are more
. . . more memorable
more like
a thousand little deaths,
which make our existence a burning star
flashing so intensely and quickly it makes the milky way vibrate
as we pocket memory after memory
mars and the moon switched places the day you sat in my row during a safe sex lecture
the guttural black hole grew a little darker
that time i was called Mexican because my skin is tan in a way
that scares you
unless you chose it out of a plastic bottle
in a tanning salon
this was all as real and as impactful as the fact that the earth revolves around the sun
almost 30% of the Americans are ignorant towards this fact
there is that loving 70 % that believes that we are naturally close to great, shiny planets
locked in a passionate waltz
and i’ll tell you now that you and i matter
that the true value of the world lays in the little stories we tell each other before we fall asleep
i promise
your teenage philosophies are valid
even if no one sends spaceships
to explore such tremendous spaces
you are not a mouth-drooling joke
for pulling stories out of your hurt
and thinking that your stories have got
to be connected
like ancient constellations lovers point out in midnight picnics
like the universe, we like to dream up ourselves as infinite
except that we’re also infinite
ly
stupid
and that’s
infinite
ly
lovely
“Dalhousie poets” is a rotating column in the Gazette’s Art & Lifestyle section featuring poetry by students on various subjects. Interested in submitting your verse? Email arts@dalgazette.com.
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