At fourteen.
At fourteen she’ll have birthed many scars,
They seep from her pores and continue to mar.
Her beautiful complexion, her beautiful soul
Beauty and innocence continues to dull.
At fourteen it’ll never be enough,
Not the wind on her face or simple rough
That happens here and there, a bad grade,
Blemishes will fade.
But can the same be said for her?
Her shoulders fall as she walks,
Her eyes downcast, so distraught
It seems her burns have seethed their toll,
And what is left is simply a hole.
That of which matters naught,
No sum of things can fill the slot.
At fourteen she’ll know too much,
She’s still a baby, wrapped in a man’s touch.
That caress is not from her father, nor her brother.
It is evil’s seemingly paltry embrace,
But even I know this much.
At fourteen she’ll have regrets.
Her body was once a blossoming rose-
But became gnarled with sins debts
I’ve seen her with my very eyes.
Lips of honey fouled with lies.
At fourteen her virtue is now a joke,
Something to mock and be broke.
They’ve beaten into her love,
But this love is not of
Husband and wife,
Or even from above.
Oh, perhaps, she could enjoy,
The wind on her face, the simple rough…
But at fourteen, it’s just too much.
To have made so much wrong,
In the very years that are supposed to thong,
Tie you,
Hold you,
And help you become,
Anything you want to be.
Why, child of fourteen,
Can’t you see?
Innocence once staked your eyes.
Eyes that used to smile, never pry
Into a world you weren’t ready for.
A world that even I admit, tore.
It gnawed me up, and spat me out,
And just like that, hell was the route.
At fourteen you have so much to learn.
So much to see,
Someone to adore.
He’ll love you, you know?
Despites flaws from before.
Wait for him,
Make your love strong, so whatever occurs,
He’ll love you, despite what you were…
At fourteen.
At fourteen, you make mistakes.
It’s a part of growing up, a price we pay.
I’m not happy for the things I’ve done,
But I know my heavenly father watches me from above.
His gaze is the sun, lighting the way,
His caress is the wind I feel every day.
At fourteen, I have my doubts.
But without them, who would I be, if I sat and pout?
And fourteen,
I know love is special, sacred,
Despite what society deems.
At fourteen,
And from here on out,
I won’t doubt.
Who I am, who I should be,
What I’m to be doing,
And where I will be.
At fourteen… I’ll have many scars,
That of which could, and might mar
But I’m trying with all earnest to make them see,
Who you are is not where you’ve been,
What you did, or even seen.
Because who you are is who you can be,
Even at fourteen.
