They see my curves before they see my years, a body carved in shadows, far ahead of time. I speak with weight, with thought, with fire, yet my heart still carries the ache of fifteen. Older eyes cling to me like vines, their whispers clothed in hunger, not care— I tell them I am young, I tell them I am still growing, but disbelief lingers like smoke in their stare. Boys my age step back, afraid, as if my presence is a storm they cannot hold. They want softness, fragility, untested light— not the girl who looks like she’s already been forged in iron. I am caught between two mirrors: in one, a child, tender, still reaching for skies; in the other, a woman they mistake me to be, bearing a crown I did not ask to wear. And in this in-between, I ache— too young to be desired by those with graying years, too old in form for boys who crave innocence alone. But I am not my body. I am not the fear they project or the hunger they bare. I am a spirit stretching far beyond their gaze, mature in soul, yet deserving the softness of being young. So let the world stumble on its blindness— I will keep growing in my own fire, both girl and woman, both shadow and light, and someday, someone will see me whole.