The Year I Forgot How Old I Was by Jen Donnell

I’d lied about my age one too many times,
stopped adding or subtracted a year
without realizing it. My grandmother
died and the tears bled into my brain cells.
Chris said he’d never talk to me again
and followed through.
He became a ghost. I was haunted.
The only cure was recklessness,
I theorized,
as Derrick slapped my behind,
when I climbed up the steps of his boat.
We drank so much tequila that the boat
almost capsized and he left for Europe,
without writing to say goodbye.
I imagined him sleeping with girls
in France and Germany,
but I’m sure there were girls in Italy and the UK.
I wrote Chris a play-by-play,
listing everywhere Derrick’s hands had been,
as if he might understand what I’d done, on my behalf.
Chris had been my god, the emperor of my vagina,
the king of Pussy Town, so I thought
I was one year younger than I really was.
My birthday cake had too few candles,
I didn’t want to grow up.


Published by

Jeremiah Walton

Jeremiah Walton is wary of writing a bio.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s