the same shoes

we're sitting in her car

her ac is out

another couple hundred down the drain, only for it to break again in a couple of weeks

sweat was dripping down my back

i stared at the sun

"what if i fail?"

she told me i wouldn't

she said it like she was God

like she saw my future, and it was so bright

i close my eyes

block out her sweltering sun

"but what if i do?"

she just repeats herself

a broken record, i can practically hear the needle stutter over her dusty vinyl

her eyes are focused on the road, on every passing car

she has never been in my shoes

she has never known the fear of a test

of how my hands tremble as i pick up the weary pencil

she has never known the fear of disappointment

of seeing it dawn on my family that i am simply

average

not exceptional

only average

she has never been in my shoes

we wear the same size

she has walked my path

she slipped the shoes on my feet when i was too young to understand

she is content in her small town life

i was raised to believe i should never be satisfied

we are both dreading the day i pack my bags and flee

we might as well drink poison togeter

it's an easier pill to swallow

than the destructive nature of growing up.