#thirteen - Hello Poetry

Thirteen-year-old girls were probably supposed to be worrying about crushes and bad haircuts and whether their friends secretly hate them. Instead some of us lie awake at night checking if our heartbeat feels “normal.” Some of us know too much about diseases, disasters, grief, psychology, endings. Too much about how cruel people can be. Too much about the world in general. The internet poured adulthood directly into our brains before we even finished becoming children. And now we are tired in strange ways. Not sleepy. Soul tired. The kind where your chest hurts from carrying invisible thoughts around all day while still turning homework in on time. The kind where you feel older than your classmates but younger than your problems. And nobody notices because you still laugh at jokes sometimes. You still brush your hair. You still say “I’m okay” automatically like your mouth learned it separately from your heart. Some nights you cry because you’re scared of dying. Other nights you cry because you’re scared this is just what being alive feels like forever. And the terrible part is you already know you sound dramatic. You criticize yourself before anyone else can. You roll your own eyes at your own pain. A tiny cynical narrator living in your head saying: calm down. other people have real problems. you’re embarrassing. But thirteen-year-old girls should not have to earn the right to suffer. Pain is pain even when it’s quiet.

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May 26

May 26, 2026 at 1:40 PM UTC

Itsmylife

Not built for thiss

Thirteen-year-old girls were probably supposed to be worrying about crushes and bad haircuts and whether their friends secretly hate them. Instead some of us lie awake at night checking if our heartbeat feels “normal.” Some of us know too much about diseases, disasters, grief, psychology, endings. Too much about how cruel people can be. Too much about the world in general. The internet poured adulthood directly into our brains before we even finished becoming children. And now we are tired in strange ways. Not sleepy. Soul tired. The kind where your chest hurts from carrying invisible thoughts around all day while still turning homework in on time. The kind where you feel older than your classmates but younger than your problems. And nobody notices because you still laugh at jokes sometimes. You still brush your hair. You still say “I’m okay” automatically like your mouth learned it separately from your heart. Some nights you cry because you’re scared of dying. Other nights you cry because you’re scared this is just what being alive feels like forever. And the terrible part is you already know you sound dramatic. You criticize yourself before anyone else can. You roll your own eyes at your own pain. A tiny cynical narrator living in your head saying: calm down. other people have real problems. you’re embarrassing. But thirteen-year-old girls should not have to earn the right to suffer. Pain is pain even when it’s quiet.