We argue over dinner,
still my mother watches
as I bike down second avenue

wavering still
like I am five
on the first cyle.

Once home
the mirror reveals
white hairs
on my head.
I pull them
one by one.

I am too young
for this
(Hair dye was too recently
saved up in change
at the drug store
to piss you off).

I do not cry out in pain when I cut my myself
over the avocado.

It is precarious
when we bike down streets
and no one is adequate
for the thoughts we dream
and the things we know
must be possible
if we want them.

We sleep on pillows
scream silently in sleep
and hope no one opens
that street side door
and stops us from storming
in the presence of others.

Things that could have been
lose themselves
like drops in a puddle.