I wasn’t a kid anymore the day you walked out the door.

I stopped playing dress up and started cleaning my mess up.

I stopped playing pretend, said goodbye to all my imaginary friends,

And became a mother to my sibling at the age of ten.

I wasn’t a kid anymore the day I was called a whore.

I stopped wearing short skirts and hid behind loose shirts.

I stopped smiling at boys, stopped making as much noise,

And decided I would not be anybody’s toy.

I wasn’t a kid anymore the day I noticed my first pore.

I didn’t know it then, but I would start noticing a lot more.

I stopped chewing and started spewing.

I stopped liking my reflection, made consistent inspections,

And began obsessing over perfection.

I wasn’t a kid anymore the day my willpower wore.

I stopped endlessly fighting and wrote my goodbye in sloppy writing.

I stopped trying, ended all my crying,

And swallowed the bottle of pills, hoping soon I’d be dying.

I wasn’t a kid anymore the day I laid in the floor,

Wishing my life wasn’t some lost war.