When I was fourteen I learned to write
I learned to pour out my sorrow onto the pages
of an old notebook

When I was fourteen I learned to write for myself
Without stupid prompts
asking me what I was proud of

When I was fourteen I learned to write the truth
Never again did a meaningless sentence spill out of my pen
saying things that were opposite of what I felt

When I was fourteen I learned to write for everyone else
I said to those silent pages what I could not say to their faces
for fear of losing everything

When I was fourteen, I learned to write