My brother is breaking into schools
Avenging childhood bullies
I think about joining, but I should leave him
To make this own memories.
He has buckets of power mashed potatoes
For the yard
And toilet paper in bundles
For the trees
He has a car full of friends
For the thrill
I shouldn’t trust so much in him, and I don’t
But I think I trust the process of being young.
I remember the thrill of getting away with petty moments
I carried them with me
And wore their success and scarcity like an award.
I could feel them shape me as I planned the spontaneity.
With him, there is a pulse of being free
Having nothing in or around
yet constantly skirting around southern rules
There is beauty in mischief, I think my parents know that too.
For a seed to grow you just plant it and water it,
But for a seed to survive you must expose it to the elements
Without protection but with surveillance.
To nourish themselves, to make them self sufficient.
Of course there is the danger of neglect, that first looks like
the thrill of freedom
But feels later feels like an aftermath.
Youth has love, life has love.
I trust in the process of being young.