A Fucking Liability

There’s a certain kind of shame

that comes with getting older

and realizing

you still don’t have it figured out.

Like—

wasn’t I supposed to be stable by now?

Grounded?

Proud of the person staring back at me

in the mirror?

Instead—

some mornings I wake up

and it feels like I’m just

a grown child

wearing adult skin.

Still making the same mistakes.

Still learning lessons

I should’ve mastered

years ago.

I’m 35 years old—

and still a fucking liability.

Not just to other people—

to myself.

And it’s not loud anymore.

That’s the thing.

It used to be chaos.

Reckless.

Obvious.

Now?

It’s quiet.

It’s forgetting to eat.

It’s isolating.

It’s replaying conversations

like they’re crimes

I need to confess to.

It’s sitting in a room

with my own thoughts

and realizing

I don’t know how to turn them off.

I tell myself—

“you should be better by now.”

But “better” feels like a word

that belongs

to other people.

People who figured it out.

People who don’t wake up

feeling like they’re already behind

in a race

they never signed up for.

And I’m tired.

God, I’m tired.

Tired of surviving.

Tired of explaining

why I’m still not okay.

Why things that look simple

feel impossible.

Tired of pretending

I’m not drowning

just because

I learned how to stay quiet

while it’s happening.

Because everyone else

looks like they’re swimming just fine.

And me?

I’m just…

trying not to sink

in front of them.

But here’s the part

I don’t say out loud—

Somewhere,

deep under all of this—

I still want to believe

I can be more than this.

That maybe

“liability”

doesn’t mean

worthless.

Maybe it just means

unfinished.

Still in progress.

Still carrying things

I never asked to hold.

Still trying—

even when I don’t know

what I’m trying for anymore.

So yeah—

I’m 35

and still a fucking liability.

But I’m also

still here.

And maybe—

just maybe—

that counts

for something.