Can't handle it when you go out because your freedom unintentionally mocks my caged-in state, clanks a mug against the bars of my prison. I didn't pick this.
Didn't pick an age that came with limitations, but I guess I'm stuck with it and **** you're stuck with me, stuck with my shaky words that come from shakier hands. Stuck with breathy phone calls when I'm sad and don't have the heart to tell you that no one actually has the power to fix it.
Stuck with these eyes that imitate thunderstorms when I'm being just a tad bit melodramatic. What do thunderstorms look like through those kaleidoscope eyes of yours? I bet they look like depression in a bottle, ready to be forced down like shots of anything that'll make me forget. I'm beginning to understand why people become alcoholics and that's terrifying.
You're stuck with everything I've ever been and everything I'll ever be. Truth is I've ruined every good time you've tried to have since you got together with me. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being a buzzkill. I'm sorry for worrying. I'm sorry for wishing I could just go with you and I'm sorry I can't.
You swear my age doesn't bother you but I'm afraid sooner or later it might begin to. Your age means freedom, mine means nine o'clock curfew on school nights and eleven o'clock ******* bedtime.
I'm an adult in a child's body. Betrayed by the number of years I've been alive.