Glass

Too Young

They say.

I'm too young.

To understand.

True suffering.

I say.

I am.

Too young.

I shouldn't know.

I shouldn't understand.

But I do.

And it's stupid.

I didn't ask.

To be depressed.

I didn't ask.

To have anxiety.

I didn't ask.

To have insomnia.

I didn't ask.

To have anorexia.

But I do.

And no adult.

Will accept it.

Not my mom.

Not my dad.

Not my grandparents.

Not my aunts.

Not my uncles.

Not even my cousins.

Because I.

Am too young.

There's no way.

They say.

That's not something to joke about.

They say.

I tell them I'm not.

They just roll their eyes.

And walk away.

Leaving me.

More depressed.

More afraid.

With more questions to keep me up at night.

And more reasons to starve.

So I stay.

In my comfort zone.

Quiet and insecure.

Staying hidden.

Behind.

My "bubbly" laugh.

My "shining" smile.

My "attractive" personality.

I stay.

And wait.

For someone.

Who understands.

That I.

Am not.

Too young.