“…Kurt?”
“What?” Kurt says from the kitchen, focusing on stirring his tea. He’s already made a habit out of not really listening to whatever Santana says — and she’s only been living with them for a few weeks.
“Is there a particular reason you have the Men of McKinley calendar hidden in your room and it’s still on January even in March?”
Kurt drops the spoon.
I am fifteen.
I find freedom in backseats
Driving in circles in drugstore
Parking lots. We drink cheap
Vodka and smoke cheap cigarettes.
We are too young and we are
Going nowhere but with our
Eyes shut it sometimes feels
Like we can go anywhere.
I don’t know much about art or
Literature or films, I am not your
Sophisticated type. I watch silly
Movies about people I want to be
I read books that make me feel
Like I can be anything other than myself.
I listen to sad songs that remind me
Of people who left me behind.
I won’t be able to impress you with
Historical facts or figures. I can’t tell
Good jokes or recite any poetry.
I never pay attention in class
And I’m not all that clever so I
Won’t expect you to like me much
Because most days I’m still
Trying to like myself but I’ll
Sit on your lap and let you
Tickle my spine and you’ll hold
Onto my thighs on those sharp corners.
I’ll roll the perfect spliff
And I’ll pass it on and
Maybe I’ll grow up tomorrow.
