Twentysomething

I’ll have a quarter-life crisis

on the rocks

and questionable haircuts

straight up.

Pour another round of

thrift store shoes,

cold shoulder dresses,

and the smell of trash long overfilled,

balancing precariously above the rim.

We’re serving up

our own parents’ humanity,

opinions on literature,

clothes still damp piled atop the dryer,

and a text that reads:

Hey ladies! Let’s all remember to switch our laundry in a timely manner!

shaken not stirred.

Damn, growing up

burns on the way down.