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.