365 Poems – 115 Twenty Seven (Rough First Draft)

Twenty Seven

I’m nearly the same age

as Kurt Cobain when he put

a piece of cold metal against

the roof of his mouth,

and submitted to the universe.


My little brother tells me

I won’t die at twenty seven,

because I’m not a celebrity.


I’m just a small person, with not

much going on, except for

a few stray wolf hairs on my leggings,

and the story of where they’ve come from.