I'm at my happiest
at (what my parents would consider)
my worst of times.

I'm best when
grins stretch
ear to ear
and there's a suspicious haze
or alcoholic stench
wafting around me.

I'm most pleased when
I'm not in class
but instead roaming
or feeling heady on life
and substances.

I'm most comfortable
when I've crept out
through my creaky basement door
at 2 AM
and embrace the city bus
on my way
downtown.

I'm the most ecstatic when
a disappointed sigh
escapes the confines
of a very tired
adult.
One who acts as my keeper.

I'm the saddest when
I've forced myself
in a little cube of
public
“learning.”

I'm more apathetic
when I'm at the end part
of yet another
/what are you doing with your life/
lectures.

I'm at my most filthy
(not when I'm rolling around
in the grass
with a boy who's as drunk as me)
but when I copy down my inevitably
neglected
homework.

I'm at my most wretched
when
I realize
not everyone lives like
me.

When it is clear
that there are people
who have the freedom
of adulthood
but hate who and
what
they
are.

I feel bad for people who aren't me.
But I also envy them.