rot honest

A poem about youth, recklessness, and refusing to live carefully

Don’t waste the blessing of youth
trying to be good.
Good gets you a thank-you card
from the same bastard who stole your spine
and used it as a towel rack.
Good is what they carve on headstones
when they run out of lies.

Burn it.
All of it.
The time, the sleep,
the careful answers and second drafts.
Let your twenties rot honest,
wild-eyed and unwashed,
a blur of bad decisions and holy mistakes.

Wake up in strange beds
with your mouth full of someone else’s name.
Write poems no one should read
and love people who won’t stay.

Get your heart broken in diners
and your nose broken in parking lots.
Stand on rooftops and scream
not because it helps,
but because there’s nothing else left to do at 3 a.m.
with the world on fire and your shoes untied.

Youth isn’t a ladder to climb.
It’s a lit match.
Flick it into the gas tank
and drive until the map forgets your name.

You’ll lose things.
Friends. Time. Teeth.
You’ll gain worse.
And somehow better.

But don’t play it safe.
Don’t aim to be remembered for your balance.
Die a little every day
until the version of you they buried
is the only one worth resurrecting.

---

More soon.

---