Where Childhood Used to Be
It was buried
in the sea of coffee brown,
one sharp strand of silver
I didn’t ask for.
Didn’t earn.
Didn’t deserve.
I swear I saw it,
glaring back at me
in the wall-length mirror
of my bedroom.
It stared like it knew.
It was familiar with
the panic clenched
between my molars,
the tears I silenced
because breakdowns
aren’t productive.
This isn’t grace.
It’s erosion.
It’s what happens
when a body absorbs
every sharp word,
every extra pound,
every silent scream—
and still shows up
with hair brushed
and shoulders back.
I tore it from my scalp—
the unwanted visitor.
A flash of silver
against the dark,
where childhood used to be.I’m fifteen.
I’m not supposed to rot yet.
Author’s Note:
This poem captures the moment I noticed something small (my first silver hair) but felt something much heavier. Where Childhood Used to Be explores the quiet grief of growing up too fast, of carrying invisible weight in a world that expects composure. It’s about the erosion of innocence, and the quiet resistance of naming it.
Sabrina Nurullaeva | 15 | Brooklyn, NY | @sabrinaaa_n32 on Instagram
