She was eight when they made fun of her weight.
But we don't talk about that.
She was nine when they stopped being parental figures.
But we don't talk about that.
She was ten when they stopped caring.
But we don't talk about that.
She was eleven when the demons knocked on the door of her brain.
But we don't talk about that.
She was twelve when she let the demons enter, letting depression settle in.
But we don't talk about that.
She was thirteen when they walked her into the Doctor's office, only for her to lie her way right back out.
But we don't talk about that.
She was fourteen when she discovered disorders.
But we don't talk about that.
She was fifteen when she figured out how screwed up the world is.
But we don't talk about that.
We don't talk about what really matters.
She's crying.
She's hungry.
She's hurting.
Thanks to self hatred.
Thanks to hurtful words.
Thanks to pushing it too far.
She's slipping.
We better talk about that.
