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Image for post

Fourteen can’t decide if it wants to hug mama
or have its hair braided
or howl at the moon

In a teary blink of an eye
Fourteen switches gears from I hate your guts
I’m scared mommy hold me
then seven seconds later
God! Leave me alone!

Fourteen has a mind of its own and a colorful vocabulary
except sometimes
when a mind needs to be made up
then its word arsenal shrinks to


snarled through snake lips on a face molded into derision and scorn and two minutes later it grows to

Fourteen wants to be considered. Respected.
without considering or respecting or hearing

Fourteen is an appetite with an attitude

and a mysterious force

it can stay as long as it likes.

I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, but I know I want it to be spelled right and punctuated correctly. I guess that’s something.

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