Say Less.

In my dead mother’s journals,

she wrote that “older doesn’t mean more mature.”

It stuck to me like gum on my shoe—

a cheap lesson that refuses to dissolve.

But sometimes younger does

mean more immature,

and sometimes I wish I were psychic—

not the hindsight kind,

not this sad parlor trick

where experience shows up late

with receipts.

I’m tired of carrying it all

like groceries biting into my forearms,

tired of pretending I don’t see

the carousel for what it is:

up, down,

round and around,

and you knuckle-deep

in the same pattern you swear

is brand new this time.

If I were smart, I’d say nothing.

I’m not smart—

just older—

so I say less.

I almost posted on Instagram:

my favorite books of the year,

a neat little caption,

proof of literacy,

proof of growth.

But who would that be for?

Not me. Not you.

Followers? Please.

A crowd of strangers

waiting to be impressed 

by an invisible spine.

Bitch, you ain’t Jesus—

no one needs your parables,

and nobody’s being saved.

Once again,

I remind myself 

to practice restraint.

I close the app

and close my mouth—

To you and others.

Which might be the closest thing

to wisdom

I’ll ever manage.