I wonder if people hear me.
I constantly articulate my hurt
“it’s just a phase,” they say.
“It’ll be over soon.”
Well how long’s a phase then?
because time only seems to sever my wounds further.
Time’s like a knife
it penetrates the skin so slowly at first,
then it digs deeper until you feel your muscles diverge.
The blade moves in and out
hitting the same tender places
over and over and over.
With time the wounds seem to only worsen!
Blistering and swelling and infecting without treatment,
It doesn’t matter how loud or how long I beg,
there are no bandages around.
“don’t worry, your wound is just a phase,” they say,
But I’m pretty sure I heard once
that if you don’t treat immediately
your body cannot heal properly.
Hear me, I say.
Answer me, I say.
Help me, I cry.
But the doctors rush past me.
They don’t even see me.
They were right in a sense, I guess,
it will be over soon
just not in the way they meant it.
I wonder if they heard me.

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This Poems Story

This was a recent time in my life where I felt unimportant, worthless, and invisible to everyone around me. When I tried to ask for help, no one responded. My only outlet was poetry.