I'm stumbling like a toddler in a room.
My hands are on my sides plane-like in the air
trying to give me some balance, to keep me from falling.
My feet hurt and are clumsy, they're not used to this.
I'm using my father's shoes.

I'm wearing them to feel like an adult,
like one of those old humans who go and live an adult life,
but my father's shoes are too big for my baby feet,
no matter how hard I try, they just don't fit.

But I keep doing it.
I'm not alone in this room,
There's no way I would be doing this just for myself,
maybe at the beginning, when it was fun.
My family is staring at me.

They are all expectators.
Of this crazy show I'm directing,
Half thinking I'm cute for pretending to be one of them.
The other half's just waiting for the moment I trip and start crying.

My father's shoes are too big for me,
This adult mockery is not for me,
Just as I realize about this.

I trip.