the frustration of making the same mistake over and over again and still not catching it until it's too late? yeah, that.

growing up around people who have money when you don't fucks you up.

my birthday dinner used to be mcdonalds.
and i could bring two friends and then afterwards,
we'd go to the dollar store and each of us got $10 to spend.

and i was happy with that,
until i learned that apparently that was sad and embarrassing.

i know it was all we could afford at the time,
hell - we couldn't really afford that, even.
but my mom did her best and i try to tell myself
that i'm okay with that.

but there's this shame.
and then there's guilt.

when i was a kid i always wanted a surprise pool party for my birthday,
because i guess i didn't realize that february babies can't have that.

and every year i tell myself that birthdays don't matter,
and the funny thing is that i believe myself, until it's too late.
i believe myself until it suddenly sets in
that my birthday is coming
and it doesn't matter.

and it always hits me like a freight train:
the realization that i'd been hoping for -
something, anything.

like a spoiled child.

i try to be grateful,
but i don't know how to shake the shame, the guilt, the
blind hope that maybe somehow, this year will be different
despite the fact that i've done nothing to make it so.

i want it to just be enough for what it is,
and i try to just shrug it off because it's just a fucking day -
when did i become this petty?

when did i become this stupid?

because every year, like clockwork,
i am knocked off my feet with a disappointment that i somehow
never see coming.

birthdays aren't supposed to be a big deal for adults.
but i think maybe there's still that idiot child in me,
who can't understand why she can't have her pool party.

it's february.
like it is every year,
when i gift myself with guilt and shame
and shallow, doomed expectations.

23 doesn't even matter.
none of them do, really.

i wish i believed that.