My hand moves left to right,
over a blank piece of paper,
smudging what I write.
As my sleeve
absorbs my pens red ink,
The edge of my white sweatshirt
turns a shade of light pink.
"just roll up your sleeves"
I can't, not even a little bit.
It may not seem like a big deal to you,
but that's where I hide my secrets.
You may be okay with sharing yours,
But I try to forget mine exist.
You write your secrets in a diary,
and I write mine on my wrist.

“you’re so mature for your age”
i was 8
i don’t think i should be mature at 8
i shouldn’t even know what “mature” means
i should’ve been a kid but he robbed me

“YOU NEED TO ACT YOUR AGE”
i am!! i finally am!!!
i’m 14 and messed up completely
this is what it’s like now to be a teen

“act like an adult”
yet i’m treated like a child
no wonder you think im wild

your calling me crazed?
babe im freaking insane!!
i’m 16 and everytime that you call
i bang my head against the wall
i wanna KICK,
SCREAM,
and CRY!!
but that’s not how i should behave
it’s not how i was raised
because im “so mature for my age”

half of my friends are in middle school
i wonder if im breaking a rule
16 with besties that are barely teens
but trust me
i have good reasoning
i never got to be 13
my memory is blocked
my brains way of erasing trauma
i’m living through these middle schoolers
trying to fill the gap
helping them make memories
i’ll never even have
i just want to make sure
that they don’t break like me
that they look back and feel happy about who they were
and not what they had to grow from

Goodbye to me,
an older version of me.
Didn't survive
through the nights,
was guided away by lights.

My body has grown,
my mind did too.
It was time to change,
and that I knew.

Letting go
of fairytales and butterflies,
the endless days
I spent outside.
Used to explore,
learning was joy.
Now it doesn't seem
as fun anymore.

One rainy night
a wolf came by.
It invited  itself in,
came quietly
through the open door,
now it’s laying
on the bedroom floor.

Every rainy night
when I get ready to sleep
the wolf doesn’t howl.
It’s always the same, low growl.

The first rainy nights
I was so scared and couldn’t sleep.
Will it bite me?
Will I still be here tomorrow?
What if it eats me up alive,
and I can’t hide?

After countless rainy nights
I learned to live with it.
The wolf won’t leave.
Maybe the growl isn‘t that bad,
it helps me sleep.
And now I know:
It never bites.
At least I hope it won’t.