In this life, is anybody real?
Or is it all fake, including the tears?
Did I grow up too fast,
that I had to learn words like betrayal?
Or am I just being too frail?

People say, “You’re too young to be so sad,”
I wanna say I agree—but they’re the reason I had that past.
They tell me these are my golden years,
but then why is this time making me die in tears?
I wanted to enjoy my childhood,
but I was locked away,
told to work all day,
they cut me of off things
that kept me from getting buried.

But at least I got to be like Rapunzel—
maybe not with dreamy long hair,
or someone who truly cares,
but at least with a window I could look out of and stare.

I thought to myself, staring at the spinning fan in pitch-black darkness,
“Am I the only one suffering, the one being tormented?”
But I am not the only one—
there are a billion others who’ve already entered that state of numbness.
I want to help them while helping myself,
even though I know the five people theory all too well—
but maybe, if I reach out, that number could change.