Scars

It starts when she is thirteen, Small jagged lines across her fingers. ‘Scratched by a cat,’ Is the lie that she tells. While the scars on her fingers Turn to thin white lines on her arms. A silent plea for the help She’d never ask for. They increase in consistency Until people start to notice. She’s told that it’s wrong. Never once ‘Are you okay?’ Even when the answer is no. She wasn’t making scars For someone to draw stars around them She didn’t want someone Calling them constellations Of the pain she goes through Or blaming themselves, Insinuating they’re a tally of How many times she needed them And they weren’t there. She doesn’t want them seeing it As a sign she never asks for help Like that’s the easiest thing to do. The scars on her wrist Are just a silent plea. Everyone says its wrong But they never offer help. When she stops drawing Lines to mark every moment That the pain was too much Or every time she felt like giving up, You think she’s okay. You think that she’s ‘better’ Because the charted lines Have finally stopped. But that’s not how it works. She was brave enough to stop If only for others. But that doesn’t erase The pain that she goes through. Sometimes she wants to draw again. Other times she wonders Who will miss her if she’s gone.