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i just wanted to be a teenager.
that’s it.
nothing poetic about it—
just a kid
in sneakers
and scraped-up knees,
not checking my pulse
every time the world got quiet.
i didn’t ask
to carry the silence of two lifetimes
on my back
before i even turned sixteen.
i wanted to care about dumb things.
like if he texted back.
or what dress to wear.
or if my math grade
would kill me.
but instead—
i was counting pills,
counting hours,
counting people who stopped calling.
i wanted to go to a party.
just one.
get glitter in my hair,
lose my voice singing songs i hate,
stumble home
with stories
and a smile i didn’t fake.
i wanted friends
not questions.
laughter,
not alarms.
i wanted freedom,
not fire.
not this pressure
in my chest
like i might combust
if i speak too loud.
i just—
i just wanted to live.
not survive.
not endure.
not explain
why i look fine
but feel like a ticking bomb
with no timer.
i grew up too fast.
not in a cute,
“she’s so mature for her age”
kind of way—
but in a
“i didn’t get the chance to slow down”
kind of way.
in a
“i blinked and forgot what childhood tasted like”
kind of way.
and now—
i’m here.
teenager.
on paper.
but not in my bones.
because my bones
are tired.
my smile
knows too many exits.
my heart
doesn’t trust quiet rooms anymore.
i try.
god—
i try.
to laugh when they laugh.
to play along.
to show up.
to blend in.
to be the version of me
that doesn’t ache so loudly.
but it slips.
normal
slips through me
like sunlight through shattered glass—
warm,
but never mine to hold.
i just wanted
to be
a teenager.
but i was handed
a war
and told to survive it
with a backpack.