I sat in the empty truck-bed looking at the sky. Mid-air and the breeze makes my tears feel frigid on my cheeks.
You are too young. I tell myself. 16. You’re a cynic who thinks the world is terrible place and cried for too many people.
You are too young to know about broken hearts and numbing the pain of it.
You are too young to want to die. Yet–you think about killing yourself every day. (Don’t tell the therapist, she’ll send us away and then the rumor will start.)
You are too young to be hurt and feel sick to your stomach for no reason.
We are such a cracked youth. Some of us are still intact; the perfect, the blameless; they make sick with their judgmental stares. Some of us have not been so lucky; we are the abused, the used, the mental; we understand this world more than some adults.
So, I may be too young to feel this. But–I’d rather feel it then be oblivious.