Born Before My Time

I was
eight years old.

But I knew
too much.

I knew
how hunger felt.

How gas
runs out.

How silence
between parents

sounds
like shouting.

I knew
how to wait.

How to lie
"Everything's fine."

I learned
not to ask.

Because questions
broke people.

And I
couldn’t fix them.

I saw
my mother cry

when she thought
I slept.

I heard
my father whisper

to the wall
“What did I do wrong?”

I wanted
to fix it.

But I was
just a child.

Still,
I grew up.

Faster than
others.

While they played,
I prayed.

For peace.
For food.

For light
not to go out.

I sold
plastic bottles.

Collected
cold coins.

Watched people
look away.

I understood.
I looked away too.

At school
they laughed.

At my shoes.
My silence.

But I kept
going.

Because quitting
was expensive.

And I couldn’t
afford it.

One day,
a teacher asked,

“What do you
want to be?”

I said
“Safe.”

She smiled.
Thought it was a joke.

But I wasn’t
laughing.

Years passed.
Wrinkles grew
before dreams.

But I’m still here.

Not rich.
Not loud.

But standing.
Still trying.

Still remembering

How life
didn’t wait.

How I
was born

before
my time.