Fourteen

I remember being fourteen,
choking on my tears.
Was there a reason?
Is there ever really a reason?
Or was I faking it,
for attention,
like he told me I was.
Was I in the wrong,
although I could do no harm?
Was it my fault,
when I cut open
that virgin skin
a temptation long forgotten.
I remember being fourteen,
blood on my leggings
from the night before.
I showed them off,
the fresh wounds,
hoping for sympathy,
but all I got was threats
of wrecked rooms
and torn skin.
I remember being fourteen,
and walking into the hospital,
being walked away from mom,
walked away from dad,
for four days.
They told me ten,
but I was good,
not a bad patient,
like the rest,
or maybe the insurance
wouldn't pay it off.
I remember being fourteen,
just diagnosed with PTSD
and Major Depressive Disorder,
as my mother brushed it off
as 'teenager things',
although she knows.
She has always known.
©earthworm