A child wearing war

War, where peace was expected,
a battle rose like the sun in the east.

Screams and cries—
fat tears rolling down my war‑torn face
like battle makeup.

I roll my sleeves up;
I put on the armor
meant for the adult,
not the teenager I was.

Heavy is the world on my shoulders
as it continues to spin,
hiding the headlines—
“the child wearing war.”

Pushing, breaking, bending—
mold her into the version of you
that you are proud of.

A burden? No.
An obligation? Yes.

Bloodied, broken, cracked
beyond repair,
stranded alone,
craving the love that I had begged for,
only to be told
that I was the one
who started the war.

What…
…

Slap!
…

Overdramatic,
loud,
careless,

Hush, child—
“you have no reason to cry”—

my soul tearing
and bloody,
already withering
as you

as you compare me
to soldiers before,

only to be reminded
I’m worse in every way it counts.