At at age of 11, the war began. 

The tragic realization of losing myself.

My youth drowning somewhere in the crowd of mental illness.

Searching relentlessly through it, trying to find its way home.

But I never found myself home. 

It’s been 6 years since I lost her, and maybe it’s my fault for pushing her away,

But if my body is supposed to feel like a home why does it feel like a warzone?

I don’t have a greeting mat, no warm blankets to shelter from the cold, 

And it is cold. 

At the age of 17, I mourn my youth.

I'm sorry for wanting you to grow up so fast. 

I’m sorry for the lack of protection, compassion, the lack of comfort.

I'm sorry for putting you through so much, at so young. 

I am sorry. 

So, so sorry. 

I hope you’re still in there somewhere, 

and that one day, you’ll come back.