The thing about having your house burn down
in the 2K’s as a teenager
is you totally lack control. I
know; I can tell.

Because I’ve tried to find clothes
that were cute, clean, and matching,
and warm preferably,
in time to escape the fire
that’s interrupted my shower
with brisk November air.

Yes, the thing about having your house burn down
in the 2K’s as a teenager
is the intimacy you’re not ready for.
I know; I can tell.

Because I certainly wouldn’t have picked the ugly,
too-small bra to be
the one that poked through my clothes
if I’d had more time. In fact,
I wouldn’t have chosen exposure at all
in a case with a choice.
I wouldn’t have picked a face with wet
hair instead of lotion coating it;

I’d have used my control to be ready
to prevent such intimacy
with the news, the youth pastor, the hotel, and the whole
town at that.

The thing about having your house burn down
in the 2K’s as a teenager

is being the only one to wear jeans
to your private school might’ve been fun
if the blessed pants you’d been given lacked
those clanking buttons on the back
that clack when you try to slip down into
your chair silently,
pulling the attention already on you
when you show up homeless and late to class,
to the fact that you’ve
something wrong. Poor unfortunate you,

who’s learned that
Shame is not always
a searing back-archer, heart attack giver,
clamping to your neck like a male cat in spring.

It can be a quiet thing,
awkward and fumbling,

toddling home after Vulnerability,

discerning whether it’s free to come in,
and often entering either way.