Little girl
Made of glass
You have grown
Far too fast
Straight plains of skin
Have become curved
Striped with unfading bruises
Harsh and purple against fish-white skin

Mature for your age
That is said kindly to you
Surprised murmurs follow
Your fathers favorite guessing game

“Whats her age?”
He asks, innocence crinkling his eyes
Guesses of sixteen and seventeen
Outnumber anything else
Thirteen, you feel proud

It’s not his fault
That you start to believe these strangers
Mature for your age
Isn’t that the same thing
As being old enough?