Why do I have this infatuation with the ­deceitful?
Lately I've allowed myself to see the evil in things,
To see the truth in all the riddles,
To lift up the rug and reveal the dust mites.
I believe
That I have reached the age
When safety's appeal bleeds through the ink of my pen
And danger dances in front of me like the yarn of a cat's eye.
I want
To walk across the ocean
Barefoot and alongside my long-lost ­accomplice.
I want
To see through the looking glass,
Past all the haze that used to suspend above my childhood memories.
I want
To bite into the world's apple
And feel its juice run down my chin.

Why do I run a fine-tooth comb under every faucet
That drips with remedies of the forbidden?
Why do I finally think that it is finally time
To speak out loud rather than whisper
At the table across from my fellow adolescent?

I am so young,
They believe.
I am so innocent.
I am so simplified.
I am so impressionable.
But little do they know
That recently
I have started to walk into rooms with X-ray vision
And lick the honey off of
The stick beside my morning cup of black coffee.