Grown

A street lamp
shivered,
turning itself inward.
The night air
crept up on cat-feet
and the road became 
quieter.
Softer and dark,
a blanket
on my suburban home.

The sunroof open
to the moon in 
my settling car,
breathing in
the last threads
of youth.

Clinging,
as my stereo croons
it's only teenage wasteland
Hoping my mascara 
isn't running into
spidery legs
down my pale cheeks.

An unwelcome plague,
with shadowy consequences.
Bubonic may have been 
easier. Open,
blackening sores
preferred
to my white-girl whines
and growing pains.

Adulthood.
Comes when you are sleeping,
as the government
slips a bill under your pillow
that you'll never pay.
I was handed pennies
to build my future.
And it isn't what it used to be.

The bugs don't buzz this time of year,
still sleeping,
being born.
The dogs bark at the surrounding dark.
People close their curtains,
shut out
this familiar unknown.
Each night.

Each new piece of paper,
building myself a thin-walled
home with legal paper
and toothpicks.
five dollar pineapples
and the constancy of
a dying street lamp.