The Highlighted Chapters

[I. We stole our moments from the water]

Sixteen tasted sweet on our tongues,
and on the faces of boys we targeted,
zeroed in on, and dragged out to the lighthouse
by their chick beer.
So we flaunted smiles and expectations
of a brighter tomorrow
praying our summer be immortalized
in photos and poems,
and faces, familiar. 

[ II.  We plucked new memories from the clouds]

The sky opened up her arms and thrust her wrath upon us;
and, while those still captive to their femininity
huddled and cursed her and swathed up their hair in hoodies
and beanies and self-deprecating meager shadows of self-worth,
we drove across town with the top down on my ’91 Sunbird.
We danced in the rain and ran to the park to rebel
against all the childhood caveats of catching cold.
We even lay soaked to the core of our adolescence
in puddles—as a matter of principle, of course.

[III. We carved our memories in the ground]

But, the day came when sixteen [somehow]
had morphed into eighteen beneath my skin,
and eighteen chomped down hard on veins and airways.
I stumbled, bent and heaved, never quite falling, and
surrendered myself to memory,
to the path I clawed out of ebony, adversity-infested soil
with my trembling fingers and tears in my eyes
and swore to never abandon this treaty I made in the mirror.

[IV. We watch our lives on the big screen]

Our eyes were meant for a purpose, for each other,
for faith and strength, and for friendship
forever.

We’ve sewn ourselves together with massively entangled
strips of film and pages of history books.

And somewhere in our minds,
sometimes pushed back and sometimes glued directly to the
backside of our eyelids with shivering ambitions
to simply survive, the reels continually replay every
laugh, tear, bleeding knee, ripping heart,
trembling voice, hollowed-out if not drunken smile.
And we’re forced to own up to—on the alternate side of consciousness—
every last mistake, and spat, and lie, and
every last plucking of each hope, fear, insecurity, and
most frequently of all, our love.

[V. A toast]

To all the boys who wouldn’t touch me,
and the girls out for their manhood upon attempt;
to parents that admit mistakes and consistently
grow up alongside me;
to a past criss-crossed and scribbled about with
ramblings of mild, self-diagnosed insanity;
to the notes in my planner, phone, and very soul
created as testaments to my capability
to live, breathe, and trust like no one should have
the pleasure of experiencing;
and, most importantly of all,
to love.

[I’m never without.]