Larissa Catullo
Age is but an experience
When I was eight I lost my confidence.
The same year I started listening to the numbers inside my jeans and on the scale.
The same year I started listening to the voice that told me I was fat.
At nine I started losing hair.
The same year my friends became scarce.
The same year I spent a lot of time alone.
At eleven I saw my dad smash my brother’s head against the floor.
The same year I lost my trust.
The same year I stopped inviting what few friends I had over to play.
At thirteen I lost my will to live.
The same year my grades went down the toilet.
The same year my vomit did too.
At fifteen I realized pills not prescribed to me made me feel better than ones that were.
The same year I learned to dismantle a pencil sharpener.
The same year I stopped wearing shorts.
At seventeen I was hospitalized for the first time.
The same year I was hospitalized for the second time.
The same year I overdosed for the first time.
I’m eighteen now. I was admitted to the hospital for the third time.
The same year I got evicted.
The same year I tried mushrooms, molly, acid, cocaine, codeine, and vicodin.
When I’m nineteen, I’ll break the trend.