Without Wax
You're fourteen years old, and you have Words.
Words that move like smoke inside your head
Hazy but insistent whispers of syllables and sounds
Graceful and warm
Left behind by feelings that burned fast and bright
Lighting up the inside of you with a magnificent burst of brilliance—
So, you have Words.
Of course, this isn't the first time you've had Words
When you were littler, you thought the world was beautiful
And you used Words to describe everything
With the rhythm and the beauty that made them Words
Instead of just words
And your mother didn't really understand, but that was ok
Because the Words were for you.
And, as it usually goes, you got bigger
And you learned that being bigger generally meant being sadder
Less enchanted and amazed
And, of course, you were eager to be bigger
Just like everyone else
So you stopped making Words
And you got bigger.
So now you're fourteen years old, and you have Words
Because you've gotten to the painful part of getting bigger:
Big emotions and thoughts—
Too big for you, really—
So you're swelling with Words, and
To try and relieve some of the pressure
To try and deny the explosion
You write.
Words pour out of you
Some are raw
Some are elegant
But all of them are precious.
You fill journals and notebooks and even notes on your phone
With Words that you can't really control in your god-awful scrawl
And the Words . . .
They heal you.
They get you through the emotions that are too big for your body
And they teach you how to handle them
Little by little
Until you're sixteen years old, and you don't need Words.
They don't pour out of you the way they did
Reckless and wild
Howling in your veins as they rush from your hand
Leaking from your eyes in the form of tears
Making you hunch your shoulders and shake
Now
You and the Words are old friends
Less like a mastery
And more like a partnership.
So now you're seventeen years old
More adult than child, but more child than wise
And you know
You'll always have Words
But now
You can rely on you, too.
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