old enough.

I love how motherly and overly-affectionate
the black ladies at the gas station are to me.
It’s not that I necessarily enjoy being coddled,
but it’s endearing—and who doesn’t like
being called “sweet baby” or “honey” by someone
other than their own mother.
Granted, this is coming from someone
who finds cat calls and cheesy pick-up lines
flattering rather than unwanted—
these days, I’ll take all the lovin’ and affection I can get.

Usually, when I go to the gas station to pick up cigarettes,
I am instantly and automatically requested to show
my identification and proof of age before I can even ask
for my staple cigarette brand, Camel Turkish Royals.
“You just look so young,” they explain apologetically, or
“Are you sure you want those cancer sticks, buttercup?”
they ask, in a semi-concerned-for-my-young-little-lungs
but mostly condescending tone.
“I’ve been smoking since I was fifteen,” I reply,
trying to maneuver my inked arms into the cashier’s
line of eyesight—to nonverbally hint that obviously
I’m old enough pay for a well-executed tattoo
by a professional and not some under-the-counter,
under-the-radar, back-alley artist, and thereby
old enough to buy myself a pack of smokes.
“Wait, you’re not fifteen?” they usually reply,
utterly dumbfounded, and carefully scrutinize
my ID once more.
Most people would happily accept this slip,
and welcome being mistaken for half a decade younger
than they actually are with open arms.
Lately, though, this has become a nuisance.
I’m not trying to grow up too quickly—
but it’s difficult to act my age when
Regina and Patti and everyone else
thinks I’m so young, I’m so goddamn young.

I realize that most days, I do look like a child,
with my thin and seemingly fragile frame,
soft voice and untamed, curly mop.
It doesn’t help my cause that I dress unnaturally boyish,
dawning cut-off jean-shorts, size small t-shirts
and bright red slip-on shoes,
or that my beard refuses to fill in completely,
or that I’m overly apologetic,
or that, despite having good posture—
as someone recently noted—
I sometimes intentionally slouch to appear shorter.
But, come on, whatever happened to possessing "boyish charm"?
I also look particularly angelic and clean when
I hang white shirts from my shoulders,
but sometimes I wonder if people mistake this
and associate it with naivety and purity.

I am far from pure—
I curse like a sailor,
smoke like a chimney
and drink like a fish.
I’ve had my share of drug binges
that could match Courtney Love’s,
and although I prefer vanilla milkshakes,
that’s not how I like my sex.

And I’m far from naive—
I understand the workings of the world,
I’m politically aware, I’ve lived through deaths,
I’ve suffered a broken heart on more than one occasion,
I know that sometimes promises are empty,
I know that love doesn’t always end
happily, like in the fairy tales,
I accept that bad things do happen to good people,
that nice guys often finish last
and that things don’t always work out as they should.

When I was younger, people used to tell me
I was precocious, possessing an old soul equipped
with a mind much wiser than my years.
Why suddenly have the tables turned?
At this age, I shouldn’t have to defend
my age, intellect, emotional maturity and experience,
and still, there you are,
belittling me.

Sometimes I wonder
if I will ever be old enough for you.