mature for my age

I was in the third grade
the first time I ever said the word
Fuck.
My parents tried to hide it from me,
They kept the TV on the top shelf
with the hard liquor and the handgun,
but then again, they did say how I always liked to climb.

I was a Samurai, Fuck was my
double-edged sword.
I kept it hidden, under pressure
sitting patiently like a skeleton in it’s sheath
ready to slice through a prepubescent duel
with my cavalier coup-de-grace:
Fuck You.

I sent them home crying.
victory was sweet like the
blood of an orange running
sticky down my fingers on
a hot afternoon.
Fuck cut my throat like ice cold lemonade.
It was my friend and we didn’t need anyone.

I was the Emperor Ronin between
Holland and Grand—I was quick,
oh yes I was. I was sure none
were quicker. That’s why I was sure
of another sweet victory when I
went up against my mother.

She was not aware of my sojourn
To the top shelf, and when I said it;
Fuck you.
She was caught off guard.
But her geisha years came back to her,
her years of lipstick and fans and
that word.
her years without friends and without love
but with that word.
She told me to never say that word again
It made the air taste like salty corn.

I am older now and I have many scars,
Each one hurt less than the last.
I remember the bad old days,
When the world was on the top shelf
When I was pink-skinned and raw
I remember back then when Fuck was still my friend