That One Constant Thing
It’s weird how I never seem to want
to be anyone else.
I’ll wish for things that other people have.
Like, damn, I wish I was taller
or damn, I wish I had more money
or damn, I wish I had a bigger pencil collection
But for some reason,
I’d never want to trade lives with another person.
Maybe it’s because some part of me knows
that everyone’s got something shitty going on—
that no one’s life is perfect in every way.
Or maybe we just…