Nobody knows, but it hurts when they laugh.

Six years old, and it's hard to understand why no one will play with you.

Ten, and your beginning to comprehend the aversion with which they feel. You get why they tease. You'd laugh too if you were them.

Thirteen, and that's when the deep-rooted hatred starts setting in. Not for them, but for yourself. You try to blame it on other people, but you know there's only one person responsible for this.

'Children will be children' Teachers say. But why then, does this last?

Sixteen, and you control the insults and malice with pain. It silences their voices, though it brings something entirely different.

Twenty, and you're at peace.