it was supposed to be easier than this

I thought music was for healing.

I thought they applied it to wounds.

Songs weren't supposed to sting,

and words weren't supposed to bite.

Danger was only for strangers' eyes,

but even the best people keep some in their back pockets.

We were supposed to be too good for enemies,

but sweet smiles come with sacrifice.

We weren't meant to cry in college,

and our hair shouldn't fall out,

and fire isn't supposed to hurt us.

It was supposed to be easier than this.

It's easy-dates and unfailing Fridays.

We have a map of adventures and a few years to draw a route.

We split the check with confidence and our bendy curfews have snapped.

But our flaws are on a checklist,

and Fridays don't feel like any other day of the week.

The map is one thousand paths deep in all directions,

with our fingers too fat to trace a route,

and the numbers on our checks are looser than our curfews.

My knuckles are white.

My textbooks are talking.

Yet, while our savings accounts fill with bruises and bad words,

as our nails dry and our lips stain,

there's a checklist on the fridge of next week's adventures.

And maybe it will be easier than this,

once our fractures heal and our necks crack.

Maybe it will be easier than this,

tomorrow.