Seventeen

Seventeen

Born so beautifully flawed
like crackleware
labeled
before your first breath;
you hit the wall on that birth day.

Eyes like marbles baked and chilled
saw the world with wonder
but mother greeted you
like a cat with her back arched.

Encircled with rules
like antique bottles
not to be broken  
you cringe at the sound of their clinking,  
and any movement or growth topples them.

Try to crawl
over broken and splintered glass
reaching out
not even knowing what you’re reaching for
your chin dips as suspicious eyes follow you.

Hungry for kindness,
you follow anybody who
scratches behind your ears
only to be kicked aside  
as the door slams.

Tomorrow is uncertain
as a Vegas card game.
Do you hold at 17
or cross your fingers
and take another card?

___________________________________________

This is about a friend of my son's. He was born addicted to crack, and never had a place where he belonged. I desperately wanted to help him, but it was right after my divorce and I didn't have the resources to take on another child. He was 17 years old and I was afraid he may commit suicide before he was 18. He was shuffled through so many homes, I lost track of him, but as far as I know, he is still alive.