They say you’re wise,
grown for your age,
like some cracked old mirror,
reflecting a world that doesn’t care.
The way you speak—
too much weight in those little shoulders,
eyes that’ve seen too many things
they shouldn’t know yet.

They say it like a compliment,
like they’re giving you a crown
for walking barefoot through fire
at seven years old,
your laugh too quiet,
your smile too rare.

They say you’re “mature,”
as if it’s a badge to wear,
but behind that mask
is a kid who never got to be one.
A soul too old too soon,
forged in the furnace of life’s *******.

It’s sad, you know—
you got dealt a hand
meant for someone twice your age,
and now they call you grown,
like it’s something to be proud of,
but all I see
is a heart that’s lost its sparkle,
and a mind that’s heavy with what it shouldn’t know.

You act adult,
because you had to,
but there’s nothing more tragic
than having to grow up
before you’ve even had the chance
to be a kid.