I’ve been an antagonist
towards my favorite people
and even still,
memories of those instances
pour over me, thick and oily,
tough to remove.
I don’t like to be reminded
that I was a child once,
that I sat with legs limp over the edge
of my mother’s bookshelf;
frozen but watching.
It’s the growing process,
I’m told,
and while I’m forgiven,
I can’t seem to release myself
from the threshold
of preadolescent tantrum.
I wasn’t alone,
but that’s not my concern;
don’t these patterns repeat,
and am I conscious enough
to feel them coming on?
Am I mature enough
to slam the brakes
before they fail?