Coming of Age

Wisp of a thing,
Still on the cusp of grown up.
In your esteem, I am bestowed
Power, of an inflexible kind.
How convenient I am, and not yet myself.
I seek safety in unspeakable things,
Seen from all sides, by eyes I court;
I feign surprise.

Tell me then, of the use of nakedness;
I wait, trembling and complicit,
Aware of the illusion yet easily,
Intentionally intoxicated, and
The river runs deep and pale.
So I drink it in, a vice with no name,
While you consume all I am,
Symbol, nymphet, mirage,
And we know not who is more flattered.

I am your coming of age;
Your turning point, your lost and found,
Your unfinished stanza.
All of you, a growing chorus,
Again and again return to me, and ask,
But what of now?
Questions demand all attention I will ever have.
All of you, insistent, clamorous chorus,
Seeking assurances that don’t seem mine to give,
For I belong to everyone,
Least of all myself.

And despite it all, I grow younger and younger.