Do not hand me promises of someday, when things are easier, when we are older and have our lives figured out. Somedays do not exist, they are ghosts collecting in the corner of a house falling apart. They keep their mouths tightly closed in thin lines, biting down on the bitter, empty promise. Afraid to open their mouths to let the words once said escape into the air polluted with maybes and laters.
Do not tell me to be careful. Do not lecture me on patience and perfect timing. I am tired. I am nineteen years young and exhausted by each one. Excuse me, taking the knife, cutting to the chase. Erasing the maybes and the if only's off of the notebook paper and photographs littering my bedroom. I will not wait in line. I will not count the seconds to find out a fate that I did not chose. That I did not create. That sneaked up on me in the middle of the night as my dreams were dancing around patient expectations. I will not waste my time.
Do not tell me someday, when we are older. Because, honestly, I do not have a lot of time. I do not expect to stay here much longer.
I am exhausted.