This is a raw, unvarnished portrait of teenage grief and emotional isolation. The poem asserts that no one listens until the suffering becomes visible, when “blood spills where your skin splits”. Adults dismiss the pain, claiming the “real world is harder”.
The poem laments that thirteen-year-olds are forced to master the “art of pretending” while “carrying the world on their ribs”. It scoffs at the idea that these are the “best years of my life”. The piece challenges the listener to recognize that the pain is not just a “phase” but a profound crisis of self-worth.
- They say the real world is harder,
- but it already feels like hell,
- the moment you realize you exist.
- Thirteen-year-olds learning how to breathe without crying,
- mastering the art of pretending,