I will never be enough.
I will never be perfect.
I will never make enough money.
I will never have enough toys.
I will never be a best-selling author.
I will always be found wanting.
I will always want more respect.
I will never have enough to satisfy my father.
I will never be enough to satisfy my mother.
I will always be up on this cross.
I will always be down in this hole.
I will always be hungry.
I will always be empty.
Every unkind word buries me.
Every thoughtless comment drowns me.
Every harsh remark casually dropped from your stupid mouth
pierces my heart.
I am sadness.
I am rage.
My loser tattoo is indelible.
You will never see me as more than this.
Worse, I will never see me as more than this.
And I will never be happier.
Any happiness I do manage to scratch up won’t last longer
than the next chocolate chip cookie
fresh from the oven
but cooling fast.
Then the next ugly thought kills me again
and again
and again
forever.
So there is a hell after all.
You know what’s best about youth?
It isn’t the vitality, though that’s good.
It isn’t zero responsibility, though that was awesome.
It’s the road that stretches out before you
and you can’t see beyond the horizon.
You could be anything
(even the successful writer you dream you could be.)
But the best thing about youth is when you look
in a girl’s eyes and she sees the man you wish you were
and,
best of all,
you haven’t fucked up yet.
