I wanted to be better than what
I’ve become. Like maybe a
real individual: An intellectual
in a burgundy bathrobe.

I would have specs
and impressive novels to peer
into the future with.

But I am just the same as
yesterday. They say I’m an
adult, but my robe is still
hot pink. My glasses are still
plastic. My novels are still
popular fiction.

All that I have become is underdeveloped.