Pillow Case Problems

I remember when I used
to fit in a pillow case
and now the woman who gave birth
to me is two thirds of my height.
The pillow case version of me believed not only in Santa or the tooth fairy,
but the naturally canonical existence of Green Goblin from Spider-Man.
This current version of me believes in sex
and thinking about sex,
and thinking about my future,
and thinking about my career,
and overthinking about my career.
Pillow case version of me
once wore a dress to kindergarten.
This version of me
is too afraid to wear a hat
in case he accidentally ends up
causing an event to recall.
Pillow case version of me
talked with his friends about bugs and superheroes,
and whether or not there was a little man in a little room underneath traffic lights who controlled
what colour they were.
This version of me talks with my friends
about how cool it is to do sex
in a dumpster behind an Arby’s,
and sometimes about my career
and how I overthink about my career.
But then that always turns back into
a conversation about sex and
boys and girls and how cool it is to
do sex in a dumpster behind an Arby’s.
And sometimes I’ll talk with my friends about
how much I want to be a kid again,
but Jack will say, “Dude, you’re still a kid.”
And Mason will say, “Stop trying to be all deep and shit.”
And Tom will say, “Remember that one time I had sex in the dumpster behind the Arby’s?”
And then I would think about how the pillow case version of Tom
was called Tommy,
and I became friends with Tommy,
but I don’t think I would be friends with Tom,
not because he had sex in the dumpster behind the Arby’s,
but because he’s kind of a shitty person to me sometimes.

And then I’ll start overthinking,
when pillow case me wouldn’t even be thinking at all,
but I’ll get trapped in the whirlwind
of nostalgia and careers
and sex and careers and sex
and Tom and Mason and Jack.
I miss when my friends were nice,
and I miss when my friends could fit into pillow cases and
I miss when my problems
could fit into pillow cases,
and I miss when my life
fit into a pillow case.
Because I’m not even an adult yet,
because I’m still a kid,
and everything is already so much bigger
and so much more terrifying and
so much more complicated.
I wish I was still young enough
to not live a life governed by anxiety,
but now I’m older,
and now my world is bigger,
and now Tommy goes by Tom,
and I will never look at an Arby’s
in the same way ever again.