I was twelve
Twelve when I saw my parents fall out of love
Twelve when I was told that my face looked better from afar
Twelve when I was taught that being a feminist was silly
Twelve when I heard that I wasn't meant to cry aloud
Twelve when I felt that it was time I died
Twelve when I decided to cut open my wrist

And then I started to write
It is now on pages that I bleed