Putting stock in what people promise.
Growing weary
like bending down to lace up my running shoes
standing up
only to realize that I am already spent.
From nights poring over the pages of books
from nights of endlessly typing out notes and papers
from nights with my phone glued to my right ear
the dials etching a grid-like design into my freckled cheek.
Trying to convinse people
who either know nothing of my past
or nothing of my heart,
to value me.
I wonder if this is the reason old people seem to shrink.
Because the weight
of making lasting friends
pushes down on them.
What more is there to do.
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