I know who I am.

I’m 15.

I know, I’m small.

I’m just 15.

I’m a teen.

So?

If I cry, its drama,

If I’m in love, it’s a phase,

What if I get raped?

Oh yeah, I get to be the reason for “my” trauma.

If I want to be independent,

I have something to hide.

If I want to live alone,

I have someone to put out of sight.

If I talk, I talk too much.

If I’m silent, I’m a freak.

It’s a dangerous world out there,

So I “should” stay within my own clique.

There must be no depression to express,

There shouldn’t be tears to fall off.

Because then, I’m seeking sympathy,

Because then, to my parents I’m a disgrace.

It’s 2 AM and I’m still 15.

I’m one voice here.

I seek one desire.

My heart pains only for my dreams.

I ask for this as I can’t seem to be able to swallow my sufferings screams.

Still, why do I feel like I belong?

Why do I feel like they care?

Knowing they don’t.

Why am I welcomed?

When I should probably just be sent to bed.

Why do I feel wanted?

Why do I feel alive even though every day is a dying day?

And yet I feel betrayed though I’m fully looked after.

Why do I feel understood?

Even though I know it’s just heads nodding in my direction.

Either I’m too lucky, or I see my ego in the reflection.