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By Honor Roberts

When I’m 18 I won’t have to care. When I’m 18 I’ll be braver. Don’t think I won’t slash the sword and slate the flickering of disownment; or disregard, as inharmonious as wood scraping against polish. I can no longer squeeze into that disappearing gap. Pocketsful of untouch’d desire: kissing, canoodling under puffed, portable duvets and swirly trousers, And beneath this, Their pointy fingertips warp around cups of hot water; their lips, Dried from electrified vexing of cigarettes, deeply in need of Carmex. That’s what they see.

About this time, the boss dogs round the gravel, with a starry-eyed leaner about to enter the circle, I find myself asking if passion rewards your babyishness? Is that you free? Maybe I should ask myself the same. Seamlessly, this is how I think, but in earnest I am happy. Ever-prevalent glitches of hurried ambition will cultivate my mind, midway through body talk, boys and general insecurity. I value these midget moments. Still, when I’m 18, I will ride the tossing waves of the jungle, playing my cards like a checkerboard. But wait; I’m 17 years old. I don’t know fate. My only understanding, is that, we are all on our timely course And presently, we are the ones left,

Who might (by right) be soon to become great.


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