Too Young To Break

Beneath the swing set’s creak, joy whispered like a ghost, while clouds of heaviness settled like stones on my chest. My voice evaporated, with every swing and sway, as I reached for something solid, my truth slipping, fading with the wind. If healing could mend the cracks in time, my voice would rise, steadily growing, not dissolving, but evolving, finding strength with the shifting air. Yet silence wraps around me, a fog that pulls me down, and in the shadows, I search for light, for someone to see - the child in need. I’m puzzled by reactions, frozen, withdrawn. Why does no one notice? I can’t carry this alone anymore. I long for understanding, a hand to pull me near, but whispers drown my cries, leaving me gripped by fear. They say I’m too young to know this kind of sadness, that my sorrow is imagined, a story I’ve invented. But the ache is like thunder, tearing through me, and their denial leaves me drowning in silence. Yet if this sadness is embellished, then perhaps the abuse was too. In the distance, I hear the orchestra, playing in the wings, while society’s stealth mutes the truth. The music swells, a bitter veil, hiding scars that won’t outgrow, while the unspoken truth remains, buried deep below. The notes grow sharper, but no one flinches, as if we’re conditioned to claim we’re unbroken. Why am I left with thoughts of suicide, as the band marches on? Why is there no intervention, no flinch at the mention? These hidden cries go unrecognised, as I stumble through this fight, while the world turns, oblivious to my plight. My adolescent years slipped away, stolen, robbed, with no innocence left. I stand before you, facing one last act, and it was never mine to make. “Mum, Dad? I need you to help me. I need to be cared for. This is part of the deal. I know you can help - just listen.”