She was a child once.
Eyes wide and sparkling with hopes and dreams untarnished.
An entire future stretching out before her.
She saw the world through a kaleidoscope,
A beautiful mess of endless neon colors,
Untouched by darkness and disappointment.
Pain was temporary; A scraped knee, a paper-cut.
Band-aids could heal every injury.

Her smile was a permanent fixture of sincerity,
Radiating happiness. A gaze full of inquisitive wonder.
When she lay her head down at night,
Her chest was not heavy with worries and cares.
Her mind was not filled with the ghosts of her past.
Sleep came easily, a quilt of comforting warmth enveloping her,
Sweeping her away to the land of dreams.

Blissful in her ignorance she lived, unaware that one day,
The monsters under her bed would make a home inside her head.
That her heart would fracture and die.
That the world she had known was a lie.
She wasted all her wishes wanting to be older,
Age was overrated, but nobody told her.

At 8 she was so innocent, at 10 she was just fine,
13 was disillusionment, the start of her decline.
At 15 she was in High School, they told her, "be mature".  
Society screamed conformity, now she was insecure.
At 16 she was lonely, desperation took its hold.
Love slipped through her fingers like drops of liquid gold.
Now, at 17, she's stuck in a recession.
She thought the therapy had dispelled her depression.

She looks in the mirror and despises her reflection,
She is bent, bruised and broken, a mess of imperfection.
Past mistakes, her tormenters, they tear her apart.
Her body, a cage, imprisons her heart.
Each breath is a burden as she lay in bed.
She can't sleep at night, theres a war inside her head.

No one ever told her the price of growing older.
They never said she'd have
A crushing weight put on her shoulders.
Suffocating in this life, poisoned at her core,
Once she was a child,
A child she is no more.

As I sit down to type these words, there is nothing more that I want to write about than you. You clog every pore in my face, every inch of my mind, every cell of blood that runs in my veins is tainted by the thought of your voice saying my name. However, I do not wish to write about how your eyes burn through my flesh and seep into my bones. I want to write about something real, something raw. Something that is not just a lonely desire I carry. I want to write about. . . you. Its always been you, this stupid lust, this first love. I want to write about how I take the looks you throw my way and hoard them in a crystal box, that no one will ever open because I am the holder of the key. And I know this isn't fair for you because it is not my box to keep, you’re eyes are not meant for me. . .I want to write about heartache and longing for your arms around me. I want you to know that I want you to be happy. I’ll write you letters everyday if I need to. But I will not send them, for I know you will think it’s strange that a girl like me is so infatuated by a boy like you. But it doesn't matter because even though you are broken, I want you. Not so I can fix you or try to heal you. I want to feel your pain with you, so that when you feel like you are drowning, you will know that you’re not alone. . .I want to write silly metaphors that only a young naive girl could come up with, that are so cliche it hurts. But it won’t matter because I can feel your hand in mine and the earth underneath my feet. And when I inhale the air around me, I know it is your exhale that is being ****** through my empty lungs. . .I don’t want to write a love poem, but when I think of you, it’s all there seems to be.