These scars haunt me,
From the inside out,
People stare at my arm
Wondering what occured.
I shout and scream,
Getting this hurt out of me,
People talk about my problem,
Trying to make sense of me.
My scars hurt no one,
Just me,
People ask about my arm,
They want to help me.
Why do I shut them out?
Why do I try to stop without them?
Why do they stare?
Why do they care?
My stories scare me,
Would they shriek?
My stories are not for the meek,
How would the stong handle my tweak?
Why should I accept their help?
Why should I fear without them?
Why do they want me?
Why do they love me?
I still wonder,
As I am dying,
I ask,
Why? |
Submission Name: These Scars Haunt Me (Why)
