A girl. Eleven years old. 
Same girl. Twelve years old. 
Same girl. Fourteen years old. 
Same girl. Eighteen years old. 
What do they have in common? 
They have brown hair. 
They love to sing. 
They hate how much they care. 
They're a human being.
They groan and sigh.
They laugh too loud. 
They tried to die. 
They lay in hospital beds, clothed in white. 
They tremble and they shake
They whimper and they cry
They don't have a family member who might wake
Or find them missing
Or find them alive. 

They are more alike than they care to think
If you talk about recovery their hearts just sink

A girl. Twenty Two years old. 
Same girl. Same woman. All grown. 
She has brown hair. 
She loves to sing.
She loves how much she cares.
She's a human being.
She groans and sighs.
She laughs too loud.
She no longer wants to die.
She lies in her own bed,
Asleep at night. 
She has people who would know the instant she thought to decide. 
People who'd stop her from trying to die. 

She is similar to the other girls, who are all the same.
There are scars on her body and she's to blame. 
When she thinks about the sunshine on a beautiful day
She thanks the universe for this chance to say

I'm glad. Glad I survived.
Some days are a struggle and I don't want to die.