You clicked accept the first time without reading,
Too busy being born to question the clauses.
The terms seemed reasonable:
Grow up, be kind, chase happiness.
What they didn’t tell you was the fine print—
The bits about heartbreak, taxes, and gravity.
At six, you learned the cost of secrets,
When your best friend told yours for a second popsicle.
At sixteen, you met love for the first time,
All braces and late-night texts,
Only to find it couldn’t hold
The weight of who you wanted to be.
You signed again at eighteen,
The paper inked with promises of freedom,
But they forgot to mention the debt
That comes with choosing your own chains.
By twenty-five, you’re fluent in disclaimers.
The mornings smell of burnt coffee and urgency,
And every “How are you?” feels like
A phishing scam for your vulnerabilities.
You nod, smile, keep scrolling.
Another checkbox clicked,
Another I have read and agree.
Then one day, the system glitches.
You’re stuck staring at the screen of your life,
Cursor blinking like an accusation.
And suddenly, you remember clause 2.7,
The one about nothing being guaranteed.
You scroll back to the top,
But there’s no option for refund.
Just more choices:
Keep going or stop here.
And who has the courage to stop?
You sigh and press accept again,
Because what else is there
A momentary pause, then the program runs.
The same bright, hollow interface.
But this time, you think—
Maybe you’ll break the terms,
Try clicking on something
No one’s supposed to see
Tanisha is a fourteen-year-old student and poet from India who loves exploring the world through words. Her writing often delves into themes of identity, nature, and the quiet complexities of everyday life. When she’s not crafting poems, she enjoys reading, sketching, and finding inspiration in the small details of the world around her.