We are 19 and trying to run
with the wolves. Our howls are too soft
and they paint the night with pastels.
We don't belong with the pack.
We are 20 and carving
our love into trees, but our knives feel dull.
Our hearts feel like weeds that are ready to pull.
We weren't born with green thumbs.
We keep planting.
We are 21 and life
is looking us in the eyes,
telling us to cough up the ink
that's been lodged in our throats.
We are 22 and poetry
has become our love language.
We speak in stanzas and kiss
with sonnet lips.
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