How many more slits in my arm must I make before I get you to finally notice?
In what direction must I slash them in order for you to care?

I said: the cat did it.
You said: there, there.
I said: my textbooks.
You said: smooth move.

I cut them diagonal, side-ways, and up and down.
You believed every lie, despite the blood on my gown.
I used staples, tacks, scissors, and broken bits.

You noticed marks, and said: oh, is that it?
I am angry and hurting, distraught, and not right.
The White boy I’m in love with is my only light.

He says to me: Run.
And I do.
Down hill and fast.
The cars sped [by], unnoticing of me, too loud, too fast.

I wanted to run to him and leap into his arms.
Knock him to the floor, sobbing, feeling his warmth.
I wanted to find him and hug him and kiss him.
I wanted to show him the tears and the scars and the sin.
I wanted him to hold me tightly and kiss me passionately and sweetly.
I wanted him to hug away the pain and kiss the scars and protect me from the speeding, loud cars.

You said: you look like an emo kid with those scars on your arms/with your scars.
I laughed and said: my textbooks!

Did you see the slits when I slept?
Do you notice them when I lose my sweater?
I had staples in my pockets, I said.
Did you even dare to ask why?
Did you feel them as you grabbed my arm?
Did you see the sliver of glass that I had?