21

I turned twenty-one today
I feel there’s something
I’m supposed to say
I feel like there’s something…

I’m supposed to do
To please you
To satisfy your expectations
To portray my development slash fruition

I don’t know what to say
Though I grasp the implications
of today
I don’t feel development slash fruition

I can go to any club now
With identity
Drink myself drunk now
You green with envy?

What else does twenty-one mean?
I’m not cute anymore?
Wha’s de scene?
Can’t I say what I said before?

Can I use my baby voice?
Bat my pretty eyes
Steal your heart with my smile
Can I stop time?

And if I’m not ready
Then what?
Can I fake being heavy
Though I worry about squat?

What is expected of me?
How to appear womanly?
Mature is the way you must see me
Surely

Right?

For spite I place all my might into living the night
As miserably as it could be lived by me smilingly
To the annoyance, disturbance, of the existence
Of everyone but I do it for fun

Dancing wildly to music loudly singing off key
I’m sweaty, yet happy to be a baby at twenty
One. Is it done? Am I no longer young? No more fun?
I have no kids, no direct dependents nor derelict devotees
Demanding discipline of little ole me.

Am I old? I don’t feel old, though a little cold
It’s twelve thirty. – Oh sht, it’s not about me
My birthday’s come and gone, the world’s moved on
And I’m in a quandary what about me?
How do I act now that I’m twenty
One?



Copyright © 2008 by Janique Dennis