If I put a curse word in my poems, would you judge them like the scars hidden by my sleeves?

But if you knew the whole story, would you be willing to listen to how I’d lay awake at night feeling as if I couldn’t breathe?

If I got let you walk a mile in my shoes and you experienced what I went through, then would you believe?

And how about if I let you watch me being pushed around physically, being touched in places I didn’t want to be touched. Would you then say I exaggerate too much?

But once you sit in the chair across from me, without me knowing you were there.

When you saw the weapon hit my skin. And my cry, when it carved in. Seeing me wake up the next morning begging God, forgive me of my sins.

Would you then understand? And take back what you said?

Or would you fall asleep at night knowing you’re the reasons I’m dead.

Did this disturb you? As I speak about my pain.

When I say “Why can’t God just drown me in the rain?”

Do you think that I’m insane?

Because I’m addicted to trying to break a vein?

What makes me so crazy?

There part where I was left to cry alone,

Or the part here I got bullied Daily?

Or the part where I hurt myself

And it didn’t even faze me?

Sometimes I hid in the bathroom, so I wasn’t forced to show my face.

Sometimes I cried myself to sleep, I’ve fallen from grace.

I look around and the broken parts of me are all over the place.