I will build a piece of furniture by myself. 

Real furniture, not an IKEA rolly chair, 

something grand like a stained wooden cabinet 

to neatly arrange my junk on, 

or a rickety bed frame that creaks as I 

roll and talk in my sleep.

I will get as many tattoos and piercings 

as my paycheck will allow. 

I’ll have all the things 

my grandparents wag their fingers at 

permanently inked on my body, 

just for the hell of it, 

have so much metal in my face, 

that a blacksmith could 

melt it all down into a battle ax.

I will fill out all the paperwork and 

pay the necessary fees 

so everyone, even the snooty ladies 

sitting at the front desk in a doctor’s office, 

will know that my name is Venus. 

It will be printed on every single 

ID and transcript, 

typed out in the subject line of 

every spam email in my inbox, 

sitting on the tip of my mother’s tongue 

when she wishes to address me.

By the time I am twenty-five, 

I will be proud of myself for sticking it out 

and fighting the good fight for nearly 

another decade from now

because I know how hard it can be.