I was only fourteen when everyone around me started to grow up,

For they were passing themselves off as if they were twenty-one,

Spending their Friday nights drowning their veins in alcohol,

Or feeding their lungs with marijuana and a couple packs of cigarettes;

Yet I found myself being forced to mature way too fast in other ways:

I made friends with people that I shouldn’t have even looked at,

Broke my own heart by falling in love with a boy who wasn’t ready to fall in love yet,

And I started to hate myself in a way that nobody should ever have to experience;

It felt like my brain has just been shot with a gun-

All that I had ever known in the past was gone,

And my brain began to bleed of depression and confusion;

So I used a poetry to catch the leakage,

To capture every raw emotion,

Every anxiety attack that shook my whole body for hours at a time,

Every tear that would pour out of my eyes,

Every piece of myself that had died lay on cheap pieces of notebook paper,

Which helped the internal bleeding slow down a bit,

So I could catch up with my brain,

And learn to have a little bit of control of myself;

And yet,

Looking back on it,

I wouldn’t have changed a single thing.