"it gets better, but what if I don't?"

yellow walls painted white

the hand-me-down retired

yet, stubborn as ever, the glow-in-the-dark starlight

growing up as required

I met my childhood architect

who signed the following text

"may your life be filled with experiences

so wonderful and glorious

you'll always have something to write about"

so, please enlighten me,

what exactly am I doing wrong?

I'm not maisie peters

or olivia rodrigo

no taylor swift with red.

cry as she plays teenage dream

"got my whole life ahead of me"

pre-empted with a speech on how excited she is to get older.

grow more.

experience more.

all the girls around me scream back

"only you!"

yet...

why do I wish I lived before I loved?

skipped the learning, found my "soulmate"

wish I waited for the wish to be granted

because I have nothing to write about

not even you.

no dirtbag exes

no one night stands

no stops on an express train

women are only marketable

when heartbroken.

my stupid drive, so determinable

wouldn't make room for life to squeeze in.

that's why I can't write anything,

I'm a tortured poet

I only write my wrongs.