Sixteen:
I have heavy eyeliner and a borrowed bad attitude.
I have nothing to be angry at, yet I am still fighting.
My combat boots could stomp out anyone
who looks at me sideways, but they wouldn’t dare do that.
We drive for hours to our own place of worship,
a dimly lit open room, no stage, and a crowd of people all waiting for the music to start.
As the final band sets up their gear,
I am in awe of how close we are.
He is a god with a guitar, setting up a mic stand with ease, with a snarky half smile.
I am not worthy.
I reach out, trying to get a hold of his perfection.
My hands are out stretched, and he is light
slipping through my fingertips.
I cannot grasp this.
I smell alcohol sweet on his breath
as I scream back the words to every song
never thinking about what they meant.
I never think of the people these songs are really about
because tonight they are all written in my name.
I marvel at how cool everyone else is here.
They are smoking outside and showing off new tattoos.
I am gawking without shame.
I buy t shirts. I sew on patches. I buy ticket after ticket after ticket.
I would get my hand stamped every weekend if I could.
But, I avoid the crowd. I don’t see the point in getting pushed around by strangers.
Driving home I am dizzy.
My head is pounding from the new intoxication.

Seventeen:
I have gotten my eyeliner in check. I still have the same bad attitude.
I am still fighting for no reason.
My combat boots still shine like new. I have yet to use them.
There is a cute boy with a crooked half smile,
and every time I see him I only think in poetry.
He makes flowers bloom under my fingernails.
We go to shows together.
I sacrifice myself to the crowd.
I let music and all the friends I haven’t met yet
push me to the ground, over and over again.
I fall over hard and I am picked back up.
I fall over hard and I am picked back up.
I put my hands out, people climb my body to get on top of the wave of the crowd.
I smell alcohol on the breath of the girl standing next to me,
and I help her to her feet, when she stumbles and falls.
There is justice in this crowd.
When I trip over my own limbs, she pulls me up too.
I turn the music up in my friends’ cars.
We play hookey.
We found a way to put ourselves above those who have wronged us.
They don’t seem to matter as much anymore.
We drive around and I feel us waking up again with the coming of a new summer.
I fall in love with a boy while our favorite songs play.
I fall in love like the pushing of bodies. I am out of control.
I am not in control.
I am still being pushed around. I still love it.
I buy t shirts. I sew on patches. I buy ticket after ticket after ticket.
I can’t seem to spend enough time with my friends.
There aren’t enough days in the week to do everything we need to do.
We are racing through this summer as if there will never be another season after it.

Eighteen
Eyeliner is no longer a priority, but I have tattoos lining places I can hide from my parents.
I have an even worse attitude.
I have even actually used my combat boots to get someone out of my face.
Most of my friends are away at school.
I should be away at school. I should not have skipped class to be here.
But, we are all together again.
We grab food before the show and get there halfway through a set.
I roll my eyes at girls swooning over every boy to walk on stage.
They do not realize yet that those boys do nothing that they could not do themselves.
As the final band at last is making their way on stage,
I am tired.
There are too many people here who are shoving me when there is no music playing yet.
Every time someone bumps into me,
I am pushed closer to the edge of losing it.
There are too many people here who don’t care about the bands.
They are only here to stare up at guitar players.
He walks on stage and basks in a floodlight and his own ego.
The smell of alcohol is thick on his breath.
He fumbles with his equipment without acknowledging we exist.
The music finally starts and some high school boy
kicks me in the back of the head.
I push my way through the crowd.
My head is spinning as I sit alone outside,
itching my new tattoos.
I buy t-shirts. I sew on patches. I buy ticket after ticker after ticket.
Eventually, I go back inside to listen,
but all I hear is noise.