The cost of growing up

I bought it this time.

Six dollars.

Stood in line with it in my hand

like I was confessing

something.

The cashier didn't care.

It's the same brand

I stole from Duane Reade

when I was seventeen,

the brown-black that made me

look older,

made me feel brave,

made me feel like I was

taking something

from the world

that wouldn't miss it.

The high was sharp.

Getting away with it

meant something then.

Now I'm paying for it,

and the transaction is ordinary,

and there's no high,

just the ordinary

exchange of money

for a pencil.

The sharpener has a little compartment

at the bottom that collects

the shavings,

and I used to dump those out

like evidence,

like proof

I was someone

who could get away

with something.

Now I just

throw them away.

The seventeen-year-old

who stole this

wouldn't recognize

the woman paying for it.

She would think

I'd given up.

She would think

I'd become

ordinary.

But I'm still here.

Still using the eyeliner.

Still making my eyes

look like something

other than what they are.

The difference is,

I'm paying for it now.

The difference is,

the bravery

doesn't feel brave anymore—

it just feels like

growing up,

which is the saddest

kind of theft,

because you don't even

realize

it's happening

until you're standing

in a CVS

at 2 PM on a Wednesday

buying what you

used to steal,

and understanding finally

that the distance

between seventeen

and now

is just the distance

between wanting

to feel like someone

and knowing

you already are,

and it doesn't matter

either way.