So the doorbell rings
And it’s the mid-life crisis delivery guy
And he’s like, “uh, did somebody order an second adolescence?”
And I’m like “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong address. I’m barely over the first one”
And he’s like “well it, has your name and picture on it”
And I’m like, “well, shit.”
And then I’m like “hey, you’re kinda cute, wanna stick around?”
And he’s like, “ew gross” and runs off leaving a box
full of hormonal changes and work stress and family drama
that I have no desire to open
until I realize there is also wine and weed and chocolate in the box
and suddenly I’m tearing it open with my bare hands and teeth
even though there’s a pair of scissors a few feet away.
the contents of the package waft up and out,
seeping into my skin the way smoke gets into the carpet
of a cheap motel room
it can’t be scrubbed away
there are no returns or refunds
the wine and weed and chocolate won’t last
so the only way forward
is to accept these unwanted gifts
with a smile and a thank you
just like my mother taught me