People ask me now, why didn’t you leave? He was a monster
But when you truly meet one you understand.
To a lonely thirteen-year-old girl getting abused
It isn’t because he’s a monster.
It’s because you are,
and that feels way worse.
My mother has always told me, when I am depressed or angry
That I am unpleasant to be around
I wish she understood how unpleasant it was
To be a depressed and angry thirteen-year-old girl.
Sometimes my friends tell me that before I told them,
They would never know how ill I was.
As if them pointing out my ability, or my need, to mask is a compliment
But instead, I wonder
If they could tell,
Would they still want to be my friend?
Would they still put their face close to mine
if they could tell
I had not brushed my teeth for a few months?
Would they still hug me
If they could tell
I could not remember the last time I showered?
If I cannot love or trust
Myself
Why would they?
But if I loved and trusted myself
I never would’ve been a lonely thirteen-year-old girl
And I wouldn’t understand
