A Barcode

I didn't notice that the lines had appeared. Tendrils of color stretching across my pale skin. The blacked lines from a tight grip, Handprints made a map of the lines I crossed. I started to think they appeared because I didn't hold my tounge, or maybe because I didn't speak up enough. Because I'd done the wrong thing, or I hadn't done something at all. I looked at the black and blue handprints spread across my white skin, And in the lines I started to see a barcode. A price tag. As if this hurt determines the price of my faults, or what I am worth to the world. It took a long time to understand that I was only seeing what I was worth to me. I didn't notice that I was becoming more aware. And you didn't notice I'd had enough. My asking to be treated well came as a shock to you, And I'm only shocked it took me so long.