I’m old now.
I have to pretend that I’m not a kid anymore.
But the truth is, somewhere inside, that child still claws at the walls.
Every year I bury him a little deeper,
under responsibility, under silence, under the weight of days that only repeat.
People say growing up is about becoming stronger,
but sometimes it feels like it’s just learning how to disappear.
Piece by piece, smile by smile.
I wear my adult face like armor,
hoping no one notices the cracks spreading underneath.
There are nights when I look in the mirror
and don’t recognize the eyes staring back.
Tired, dimmer, as if they’ve seen too much
and forgotten almost everything that once made them bright.
Maybe this is what age really is:
not a number, but a slow surrender,
an endless negotiation with the ghosts of who we could’ve been.
And yet we walk on, pretending,
because that’s what the world expects.
To hide the child, swallow the fear,
and call it maturity.