When I was younger, my hands were too small to reach for large shelves, my heart was small but its faint beats used to calm me, my eyes were small, curious, full of wonder,

I wonder why I used to wish to grow up fast? Was maturity that appealing to me? Were the adults around me look so contended, so sure of themselves, sure about their lives, that I can't help but crave for that sense of security that I wished in every dandelions I caught, every shooting stars, every birthday candles,

But now that I am growing up, my hands got bigger but vulnerable to bruises, my heart got bigger, heavier, unbearably suffocating, my eyes bigger, more open, gradually growing dimmer, colder,

and now I don't need to wonder why adults seem to have it together
because now I'm
doing my best to pretend I am okay, too