At nine and a half, I was jeered,
But hopeful of the mental matters
At hand. He had left my life
And I wouldn't accept it.
How could a girl's supposed-
Favourite person, just up
And leave?

At twelve-
A little girl at my boss' back
Kept poking whenever I -
Wanted to give up. Hope. Ask
Me where she comes from? I -
Haven't a clue.
At thirteen-
My beater wanted to reject the
Pain. It gnawed its way;
Through her chest, around lungs,
Leaving a little breathlessness.

How painful it is to be-
Suffocating, dying alive.
Alas it sworded her beater;
At fourteen it-
Struck the love out of her.
Realization sat on her brain,
As she surrendered to acceptance.