technically,
i’m ten years old.
and i’m just a bigger version
of my boys. who are eight and four.

we’re always hiding from mom.
when we do things wrong. and
making trouble. when she’s not looking.

we play steamroller over each other’s
bodies on the bed. crush pillows and blankets
making all stuffed animals dead.

we’re boys. we close the door. and shut
off all the lights. except for the
P • I • X • A • R style lamp on the nightstand.

and shine it on the wall behind our
hands. to create a new world. the
land of rebellious shadow puppets.

fighting. because we crave destruction.
war. rage. seeing things fall apart.
we’re evil. no matter what age.

whispering. telling secrets. but constantly
we’re loving and picking roses to
give her. as we still beg from her.

permission. to do anything.
asking to be excused from every
meal. respecting her as the only girl.

we really want to do good. we do.
my eleventh birthday is real soon,
and i can’t promise to grow up

because i can’t seem to fit
into the woman’s size 7
pants of the household.