The other day, someone asked me how old I was when I moved out of my parents house and I told them I was fourteen and they looked at me like I was crazy. When you’re fourteen you still need your mom to listen to you cry after you kiss a boy and he goes behind your back and kisses your best friend three nights later and you still need your dad to pick you up from school and give you money that you’re probably going to lose. But when I was fourteen I stopped talking to the girl I had been friends with since second grade. I never went downstairs when my mom called for dinner. I would lay on the floor for hours trying to feel something. I kissed four boys in one night because I wanted to know what love felt like but apparently it just felt like slimy tongues and sweaty hands grabbing at you. I handed in six homework assignments that year and my teachers called my parents in for a meeting but no one could get me to get the fuck out of bed and focus. I spent a few months tearing into my veins until I went too deep one night and found myself covered in blood and something else, probably the last bit of happiness I had left. When I was fourteen I think I disappeared. I lost myself one night trying to sneak out the window to buy drugs from the boy next door and I never really came home. I was fourteen when I moved out.