At Sixteen

I scold my younger self too easily,  

as if he could have seen this future  

with clearer eyes, steadier hands,  

or a compass that didn’t spin wildly.  

He wore mistakes like mismatched earrings,  

loud enough to be noticed,  

too stubborn to take off.  

He believed permanence was a reckless lie,  

and tomorrow was always just optional.  

I sit here, older, wiser,  

with years puffed in my jacket pockets,  

clucking my tongue like a disapproving clock,  

mistaking time for some kind of halo.  

But hindsight is a liar framed as clarity,  

whispering, "You should have known better."  

As if the map is ever handed out  

before you set foot on the trail.  

If I’m honest, I miss his daring,  

the way he plunged forward  

without waiting for permission  

to make a sound.