EIGHTEEN

is the year everything changes.

Full cheeks deflate like 

tired rubber balloons while

intuition and wisdom roar

toward the sky.

You are the lion now,

they say.

Leave the cub.

But the gold in my coat is 

merely a 

reflection

by the sun—

a merciful force;

only it knows I am still

pink and new.

My claws stick the surface as

pins,

not needles—

barely a temporary

tattoo.

Maybe they’ll cut or maybe

they’ll bleed,

a false ink

reddened by shame

or inexperience—

all the same

to them.

Should I not run with my pride,

raise my tail high

and soak in the rays?

Or should I let it roll

beneath my legs,

limp until the skin

wrinkles in the right

direction?

I am not the 

wind—

do not ask me to twirl

where your thumb traces

the compass line.

The hourglass does not 

breathe;

how can it possibly hope

to measure me?

Yes, I 

breathe, I

scream,

I break the glass—

no emergency.

I will perch on the cliff

and fall,

whether I whisper in

the 

shadows 

or

roar to 

the 

light.