I Do Not Like This Grown-Up Game

I do not like this grown-up game.
It’s mostly stress and bills and shame.
I do not like it here or there.
I do not like it anywhere.

I do not like to pay for heat.
Or answer emails. Or eat meat.
I do not like to mow the grass.
Or act like I enjoy a task.

I do not know what forms I signed.
I lost my keys. I’ve lost my mind.
I do not know what’s due, or when.
I’ll figure it out. (Check back at ten.)

I do not want to fix the sink.
Or ask how much for that one drink.
I do not like the rent, the fees—
I miss the tooth fairy. And naps. And knees.

I do not know what I should do.
Should I invest? Or buy shampoo?
Should I go back to school? Or bed?
I just want toast and peace instead.

I do not like the fridge repair.
I do not like this adult hair.
Why do we all just learn to cope
by overthinking beans and hope?

I do not like these awkward calls.
I do not like my aching walls.
I do not like when plans are made.
I need three days to mentally hydrate.

I do not like this tax-time mess.
Or how my inbox breeds distress.
I do not like when dishes sigh
just looking at me walking by.

I do not like this grown-up thing.
I miss when joy came with a swing.
But here I am, I do my best—
in leggings, tea, and deep unrest.

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