Am I too young to be this responsible,
yet worried and stressed and anxious?
I thought the crippling sense
of the entirety of life, love, death,
and all that lies in-between
does not infect a person
until her mid-life.

Here I am, creating ulcers
in my stomach and little else,
with adolescent acne on my cheeks,
a crush on the boy
in my spanish class,
and an analysis of
the inner workings
of the universe
consuming what little
thought space
I still possess.

Meanwhile those in mid-life,
with books full of
knowledge and experience,
cannot understand.

"Grow up,
be responsible,
fix the mess we left you,"
they chant every day.

Why can't they see in my eyes
that my attempts can
never
be
enough?

I can see your world
it is too big,
too complicated,
too negative,
I will not survive it at any rate.

The stress
will
eat
me
alive.

The stress
is eating
me alive.

I am too young for this.