Precocious

One day I’ll cut my hair, I guess. And one day the roots will grow out, and it’ll all fade to brown again. The last plates of darkness on my nails will chip off, grow out, get chewed off. I’ll yearn for looser garments of woven materials not invented by a prospector named Levi, belts unadorned with foreign metals, shoes without encircled stars capping my ankles. I’ll look up, not down. I’ll dance hard, not soft. I’ll stop writing in you. I’ll realize what a caricature I am. But not now, not yet— How can I? No one gets me.