Birthright

We are children of the broken

and we’ve followed in their footsteps -

to know that we must break ourselves

in order to be whole;

counting our trauma on our fingers

like money to be traded,

as if adversity is our credit

and the poorest are the ones

with happy childhoods.

Young writers load their pens

with a false sense of what it means to be adults -

sharing love stories of choking down vodka;

pumping stomachs lined

with liquor and telling the story

like a password into the promise land of acceptance,

using their medical bill as proof that they’ve

seen more of this world than anyone else.

We are a generation

romanticizing the cuts on our wrists,

as if a pretty boy is going to come along and kiss them;

a people in love with the poetry

behind smoke wrapping around our lungs,

letting us see the world through a haze -

self-medicating away the problems we’ve inherited

by all those who came before us.