One time,
I watched a kid
two or three years younger
get on the bus by himself.
Me?
I just stood there—
stupid and stuck.
Everyone says I should be mature by now.
But I'm not.
I'm soft, unsure,
a little too slow for the world.
So tell me—
how do you grow up when you don't even feel real yet?
Turned eighteen, but I still feel ten.
Like, I skipped the part where you learn how to grow up.
I've said dumb things.
Felt dumber after.
Still can't ride a bike,
still scared to ask questions.
Still afraid of silence that feels like judgment.
I watch others drive somewhere fast—
taillights blinking like freedom.
Me? I'll choose to walk,
feet on the ground,
even if it means I get there slower.
At least I'll know I moved because I wanted to.