The thing is that I don’t know
I don’t know if I’ll ever find somebody who will understand me and forever love me
I don’t know if I’ll end up having my own family and if I’ll live in the big white house with the picket fence

I don’t know if I even want that
I don’t know if I’ll end up an author or a therapist or a doctor
I don’t know if I’m okay, and to be honest I don’t even know the definition of okay
I don’t know if I’m a good friend; I don’t know if I deserve good friends
I don’t know if anything I do impacts anyone and I don’t know why I think and feel this way
I don’t know if I’m going to stop writing all of a sudden and delete this

I am very confused because I. Don’t. Know.
I don’t know if I even have the right to know or if this stuff is reserved for the future
I don’t know if I love or if I don’t and I don’t know what I’ll do if yes, it turns out that I do love.
I just don’t know
I don’t know so many things and I don’t know how I feel about that
I don’t know if I’ll ever live down my regrets and I don’t know if this confusion will ever end

I don’t know if I’m beautiful or even remotely pretty
I don’t know if my friends and parents only say this as an obligation
I don’t know why it matters if I’m pretty or not
I don’t know why I’m so insecure so many times
I don’t know why people who are beautiful say they aren't
I don’t know why I’m thinking so much about what I don’t know
I. Don’t. Know. So. Many. Things.

And I’m okay with that.