Cecelia Hasbin's "my life" reads like a confession laid out line by line. Nearly every line begins with "I," and the repetition makes the poem feel like a record of things the speaker has carried: teasing, loneliness, fights, abuse, rape, pregnancy, miscarriage, and the loss of loved ones. She doesn't dress any of it up. The plain, flat wording makes the events feel heavier, as if she has learned to state them simply because there is so much to say.
The mood is bleak, but it also feels honest and a little brave. Near the end, the verbs shift from "I was" to "I thought," and the poem turns inward: she doubted her mother's love, her own strength, and her ability to survive. The last line, "I never knew life is so serious," is the quietest and perhaps the most striking. It suggests a person who was forced to grow up too fast, and who is looking back on it all with weary understanding.