I hate the term “baby face.”
Mostly because I have one.
I hate that I am treated as lesser simply because
I am perceived as younger.
“Oh, sweetie, you’ll love it when you’re older.”
Don’t call me sweetie.
“Are you ready for Santa, honey?”
I am twenty-four years old.
Don’t call me honey!
Don’t tell me to lighten up, either!
Don’t tell me to allow other people
To steam roll my words simply because ‘I’m so precious.’
I am not precious! I am an adult!
A drinking, smoking, cursing, spitting, voting, sex-life-having,
tax-paying, car-driving, Dr.’s-appointment-making,
Look at me adulting all over the place!
I have been in a strip club and followed by bouncers.
As if I would pull out the wrong ID at any moment.
I have been quizzed on my driver’s license.
The address is wrong. The weight is wrong.
But, I have blue eyes, brown hair, and a little red heart
That says I’m an organ donor.
Call me cute when I’m mad one more time
And those won’t be my organs getting donated!
I suppose, maybe, perhaps
When I am fifty and sixty
And everyone else is a wrinkly sagging mess,
I’ll appreciate the youthful glow in my face.
The absolute resistance to time seems to hold.
People would be asking if I’m the parent
Even though I’m the grandparent.
That would be fun.
But I’m not fifty.
I’m not sixty.
Stop looking at my license,
Pour me another shot,
Don’t call me sweetie,
And stop talking about my baby face.