I’m not stupid.

  I know they struggle too.

  I know they pay their rent,

  their bills,

  their electric,

  their water,

  all the little hidden gremlins of adulthood—

  internet, streaming, subscriptions,

  the quiet money-drains nobody notices

  until the bank app screams.

  I know they aren’t living luxury.

  I know they aren’t rolling in gold.

  I know they’ve got stress too.

  But what gets me—

  what really gets me in the ribs,

  twists the knife,

  makes the anger taste metallic—

  is how they never seem to go without.

  Not really.

  Not in the way I do.

  How is it

  that I’m the one checking my account

  before buying anything,

  but they’re out here

  buying whatever they want

  whenever the impulse hits,

  like the universe personally wires them money

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  for good behavior?

  How is it

  that I’m the one rationing coins,

  stretching dollar bills,

  making a miracle out of a ten,

  but they’re always

  —always—

  finding a way

  to get what they want?

  I know they pay more than me.

  I know their share of the house

  is bigger,

  heavier,

  messier.

  I know being an adult

  is hell for everyone

  in their own custom-made way.

  But still—

  still—

  why does their struggle

  never look like hunger?

  Why does it never look like panic at 2am

  when you’re $40 short

  and payday is four days away?

  Why does it never look

  like choosing which bill

  to let rot this month?

  How do they juggle

  all those responsibilities

  and still have pockets

  full enough for comfort,

  for hobbies,

  for little luxuries I can’t even dream of?

  It’s not jealousy.

  It’s not entitlement.

  It’s confusion.

  It’s exhaustion.

  It’s that sting of knowing

  I’m working my ass off

  and still losing

  to people who somehow

  always land on their feet.

  I know they struggle.

  But god,

  sometimes it feels like

  I’m the only one who bleeds

  when life bites down.