Nobody had to tell her that the taste of blood was metallic.
She figured it out on her own when she slid the blade across her skin and licked at the crimson poison to try and desperately hide the slit of evidence.
Nobody had to tell him that the smell of smoke can sting.
He figured it out on his own when he locked himself in his room when he thought his trials were too great for him to bear as he inhaled the promise and sputtered the regret.
Nobody had to tell her that sugar turns into fat.
She figured it out on her own when she passed by a mirror and saw herself with Rocky Road spilled down her front after being bombarded with insults that would be compliments to pigs.
Nobody had to tell him sex isn’t the only known stress reliever to man.
He figured it out on his own when he woke up next to girl number twenty-seven or thirty-five; he couldn’t remember for the life of him, or even why he thought they would save him for that matter.
Nobody had to tell you how to be you.
You figured it out on your own when you survived the near death experiences that were delivered so stealthily by the life to which you found yourself a slave. With scars as dark as charcoal etched into your emotional being and bones more fragile than trust, you chose where to take your next step, knowing full well what was waiting for you when you chose your fate.