They don’t know.
They don’t know my pain.
They don’t know my anger.
They don’t know how it feels,
how it feels to watch them feel pain.
Pain the leaves marks,
scars that print a story.
The story of their life.

They don’t know who they’re hurting.
They don’t know how it hurts,
or why.
Why do it?
Do they know?
They take the pain from their hearts,
cut and paste it to their arms.
Pasted are the marks until they are retyped,
creating new meaning,
creating a new story that people are afraid to know the end of.
The story is left behind until they have no more story to tell.