I wear my future like a second skin,
it itches in the places no one sees.
My grades are gods — I mustn’t sin,
I sacrifice my sleep on lettered knees.
But no one claps when I bleed A+ — just, “good.”
I tape a smile where joy once stood.
[got 98 and still got asked — “where’s the rest?”]
[i started to rot right after doing my best.]
My body changed before I could consent,
a stranger now lives inside my spine.
“Are you a boy? A girl? Just pick a vent,”
they ask, like genders come with warning signs.
I stare into mirrors like crime scenes at night,
collecting pronouns under flickering light.
[gender’s a loading screen stuck at 82,]
[and i’m the glitch they forgot to undo.]
The hallway smells like fear and Axe,
locker doors slam like mental traps.
I walk like I’m dodging a social tax,
masking in memes and mental maps.
If high school is hell, then lunch is war,
and silence is currency you can’t afford.
[i sat alone to protect my pride,]
[but even the table looked away and sighed.]
The internet says I should be soft,
but life demands a sharpened jaw.
Smile pretty, laugh just enough —
fake your peace, obey their law.
Cry in the shower, wince in math,
then post a thirst trap to dodge the wrath.
[therapy costs more than my monthly pain,]
[so i scream in lowercase and dance in shame.]
Love said hi, then left mid-arc,
a subplot cancelled without an end.
He wrote me poems that felt so dark
and sent them to his “just a friend.”
I gave him the softest parts of me —
he gave them back as an apology.
[he said i was “too much” and “hard to know”]
[but watched every story just for show.]
Trust is a god I don’t pray to now,
it fails the same test every time.
Best friends whisper and break their vow,
loyalty dies over juice and grime.
I’ve seen hearts break over TikTok trends —
and seen “forever” last two weekends.
[my group chat turned into a warzone fast,]
[i saw my name in screenshots from the past.]
They tell me: “these years are golden, dear,”
but mine taste mostly like metal and blood.
I breathe in tension, exhale fear,
while pretending my brain isn’t stuck in the mud.
If this is youth, then I want a receipt —
'cause this shit expired before I hit repeat.
[golden age? i’m rusted inside,]
[but thanks for the trauma — signed, “bride of pride.”]
My parents say they “understand the stress,”
but I can’t even curse without being cursed.
I am the family’s gamble in a fancy dress,
juggling their dreams until mine burst.
I fail silently so they can sleep,
and cry in fonts too small to read.
[they call me lazy — i call it decay,]
[we both ignore it and pray it goes away.]
I scroll through lives I’ll never own,
highlight reels that scream: “not you.”
Everyone glows while I postpone
the version of me that feels true.
I’m both “main character” and background blur —
depends who’s watching, and if they were.
[filtered faces, captioned lies,]
[and still, i post in case someone replies.]
So here I am at sweet sixteen,
pretending I’m fine in lowercase text.
Fear is casual, pain is routine,
and trust issues are my side effects.
But still, I rise — like trauma memes
on pages I follow between my screams.
[my lockscreen says “breathe” — i ghosted that too,]
[my coping mechanisms have PTSD too.]
Depression is a roommate who won’t pay rent,
it sleeps in my spine and eats my time.
Some days I’m loud, others — absent,
the silence heavy, the guilt a crime.
I laugh in public to avoid suspicion,
and spiral in 4K, perfect condition.
[“cheer up” is code for “please shut up,”]
[but i drink sadness from my own teacup.]
I’ve thought about leaving, not in a note,
just slowly — like dust or light or steam.
But then I write a stupid poem,
and that somehow counts as “having a dream.”
Maybe surviving isn’t that poetic,
but it’s still mine, neurotic and magnetic.
[death knocks but forgets the doorbell,]
[and i pretend i'm not home just as well.]
I’m learning to sit with my broken parts,
to not fix pain just because it’s loud.
Some wounds are tattoos from life’s false starts,
others are ghosts I’ll never talk down.
But I name them gently, give them tea,
and let them rot respectfully.
[self-love is cringey until it saves you,]
[then it’s the weirdest miracle you ever grew.]
I still don't trust most sunny days,
but I’ve made peace with thunderstorms.
I fold my fears in careful ways,
like letters addressed to future forms.
Sixteen is hell, but I’ve been through worse —
and I’m still here, a glitch and a verse.
[i’m not okay, but i showed up again,]
[which makes me stronger than most of them.]