The surgeries that fix the things we break are sins against our bodies.
Stop eating like fools, drinking like revolutionaries.
Admitting fatigue is not admitting defeat, and paleness is not a flaw.
Teenagers are not made inferior by sobriety,
but their age that blinds them to this truth,
and convenient lies are no more convenient than
jumping off a cliff is a shortcut to the ground.
Where do we stop, and make realizations about ourselves?
When do we notice, on a ten-minute drive,
that there is life between home and our destination?
Our culture inches us onto steam engines,
dares gravity to interfere with the inertia that is us.
I am adding lemon juice to my hair, and she is photoshopping hers.
He adds one more rep, and all the rest become word wielders.
I want a town that knows how to breathe,
leaves some kind of mystery in the eyes of its shop owners,
and its civilians on the subway.
Or I want the woods and a clearing,
a place to look at the sky and pretend the clouds or the shades of blue
mean something universal.
I want to fill spaces on the inside, of myself and others;
rather than spaces on the outside, in corners of Starbucks,
or seats in the back of the bus.
I want consciousness that drives its own self, unapologetically;
yells at the sky with the top down,
knowing someone might hear me uncensored,
breaks speed limits because propriety moves too slowly,
drives with one hand on the wheel,
so I can wave at anyone who notices I don't drive like the rest.