Born Before My Time

I was eight years old. But I knew too much. I knew how hunger felt. How gas runs out. How silence between parents sounds like shouting. I knew how to wait. How to lie "Everything's fine." I learned not to ask. Because questions broke people. And I couldn’t fix them. I saw my mother cry when she thought I slept. I heard my father whisper to the wall “What did I do wrong?” I wanted to fix it. But I was just a child. Still, I grew up. Faster than others. While they played, I prayed. For peace. For food. For light not to go out. I sold plastic bottles. Collected cold coins. Watched people look away. I understood. I looked away too. At school they laughed. At my shoes. My silence. But I kept going. Because quitting was expensive. And I couldn’t afford it. One day, a teacher asked, “What do you want to be?” I said “Safe.” She smiled. Thought it was a joke. But I wasn’t laughing. Years passed. Wrinkles grew before dreams. But I’m still here. Not rich. Not loud. But standing. Still trying. Still remembering How life didn’t wait. How I was born before my time.