i don't know a thing, my guy

Fri, 12/09/2016 - 22:17 -- adaiaa

I don’t know how to do math,

and I don’t know how to do science either, but I want to, because I like the idea of science and math,

and I don’t know why I wish there was  “right” way to live your life,

and I don’t know how we can exist and not have a purpose, yet I know it’s true anyway,

and I don’t know how things just don’t “work out” for those who deserve it,

and I’ll never know if how I’m living now won’t make me feel regretful in the future.

 

I don’t know why dogs don’t live as long as people,

and I don’t know why people don’t suddenly want to cry when they see someone else cry,

and I don’t know how people can not want to learn to be better,

and I don’t know why I always feel like I need to be better,

and I don’t know what it means to be “better”,

and I’ll never know why people respond to questions about what their “favorite movie” or “favorite singer” by saying “I don’t know” -- why would they lie about something that small?

 

I don’t know how my sister keeps growing up-- only I can do that, not her,

and I don’t know why my sister keeps talking when she knows she shouldn’t,

and I don’t know why my mom always tells me that she wished I was “who I was when I was younger”,

and I don’t know why I thought taking a job as a cashier at Price Chopper would be fun,

and I don’t know why all the barcodes for giant-ass packs of water bottles are on the bottom of the pack, like, all the smaller packs have the barcode on top, so it’s literally just only to make me have to drag it out of peoples’ carts, flip it, scan it, flip it back over, and put it back,

and I’ll never know why I sometimes I take the long way home driving back from work, as if I’m hoping I’ll never have to go home.

 

I don’t know why my own name sounds so awkward to me out loud,

and I don’t know how to not feel uncomfortable in my own skin,

and I don’t know why people fight so hard against the singular “their” -- like, what’s your damage?

and I don’t know how people can take themselves seriously,

and I don’t know how to think about my feelings without feeling self centered,

and I’ll never know why it’s so hard to go to sleep, even when I want to.

 

I don’t know why no one tries media I recommend them, but eventually end up liking it-- like, believe it or not, I have good taste,

and I don’t know why I can’t just like things without fixating on them,
and I don’t know why I keep buying books that I don’t have time to read,
and I don’t know why I don’t make more time to read,

and I don’t know why kids don’t read anymore,

and I’ll never know why the ruined To Kill a Mockingbird for me by releasing the “sequel” -- Atticus Finch was one of my favorite characters.
 

I don’t know how I’m so lucky to have the friends I have now,
and I don’t know why I still feel like they don’t actually like me,

and I don’t know why I’m still so paranoid all the time that it’s all going to go away,

and I don’t know why my favorite thing in the world is just making people laugh, but I suspect it’s because it makes me feel wanted,

and I don’t know why she acts like I’m the one who ruined what we had,

and I'll never know why I’ll always be mad that she’ll always think that.

This poem is about: 
Me

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