bleeding
the little scrapes on my knees that turned into gashes
as i let the blood dribble down my shins
hoping someone will notice
hoping someone will care
the welt in the middle of my forehead
bleeding, turning purple and green with rot
as the nurse sighed and dabbed it with antiseptic and the doctor told me
“this was all for attention wasn’t it?”
first of all it wasn’t
but what if it was?
what if i crave for people to see me
to look behind the eyeliner and lift up my bangs and ask me if i’m okay
what if a fucked up part of me wants people to ask
wants people to check in
wants people to want me for all of me instead of just a thing to fuck
to use
to ignore
to play with when it’s convenient and fun but leave when i start bleeding again
the sloppy thick red that gushes out of me without warning
that i spent most of my life being forced to hastily cover with bandaids
applying pressure with bloody palms
it’s all your fault
you’re making yourself a target
just put it all away
nobody wants to see that
shoving myself into corners and lockers
crying and pleading for help while everyone else sighed
“they’re having an episode again”
“calm them down”
“tell them to stop”
“get the zyprexa”
what if i want people to see me
as a person and not a problem?