I am only seventeen,
And they're telling me these things
I will get sicker,
And I will get better.
I cry into my cereal,
Because a week ago,
I talked about the weather.
But now, I'm talking about plans,
They say there is no cure,
But at least it's not cancer.
As if, that will make me feel okay.
I cry for my could've been children,
And my could've been house.
And my could've been family.
My life has only begun, I am 17.
And already, something is wrong.
My babies will never happen,
I will never have my own family.
I'm a kid, acting as an adult.
Because I know, sooner or later,
I won't have the chance,
To do it again.