MaturityGrowing up means growing down,
deeper into the earth
until we are six feet under.
Maturity is not a badge of honour,
because the gleaming golden trophy belongs to those who will
punch and kick and undercut,
while the mature must settle for quietly consoling themselves
in their celebrated capacity for emotional abuse.
Perhaps we should be proud of our blank name,
Our battered and broken selves,
tucked neatly away into unacceptably present bodies.
And yet nothing can heal that,
the most crushing of loneliness
when one is wrested from the label under which
they once took solace.
Call me barbaric
Call me overlarge
Call me the unwanted moss on an otherwise manicured tree
But never call me yours.
I am mine,
but never tamed.