I learned fear before my age

Seven days from seventeen, and I’m furious, raw, unclean. Still a kid, still small inside, just better at the ways I hide. I’m not scared of ghosts or fairy lies, I’m scared of hands and watching eyes. Scared of men who swear they’re kind, scared of the world that fails to mind. I’ve been through enough don’t argue that. Enough to break me, splinter me flat. Enough that my chest stays locked in brace, like danger still lives in every space. And don’t tell me “it’s over,” don’t say “you’re strong,” I’ve been strong for way too fucking long. Strength wasn’t chosen, it was forced, survival beaten in by force. What if there’s more? What if fate’s bored? What if pain’s still keeping score? What if the universe hasn’t quit, still lining me up for another hit? I can’t do it again. I won’t. I refuse. I’m sick of being the one it chews. I don’t want scars as proof I grew, don’t want pain to be my fucking glue. Seven days from seventeen, and growing up feels like a threat unseen. Like every year just sharpens the blade and dares me to bleed but not be afraid. I’m not scared of night or hell or flame I’m scared the world already knows my name. I’m scared it’s watching, waiting, amused, deciding how else I can be used.