My brother called to talk about the cake

My brother called to talk about the cake,

and every careful choice I didn't make.

The career I should have by thirty-four

is a ghost that follows me through the door.

I put on the wool I found for ten bucks,

to hide the way my confidence struck.

The weight of the expectations is worn like a coat,

with a collar that pinches the skin of my throat.

The fabric bunches up high at the base of my head,

forcing me down to the pavement instead,

looking for pennies or some kind of sign,

that the life that I’m living is actually mine.