White Lines

Invisible ink that no one seems to see.

I have no scars to prov my battles, no war wound worth their pity.

Yet if they looked beneath my skin they would see the damage from the storm.

The deep gashes of self hate filled with guilt and doubt, the slapdash stitches that show how I try to keep myself together,

When the seams burst along with my heart, and I cry with bloodied arms for help, they stare in disbelief.

How could I be hurting if they'd never seen me in pain before now?

For a moment I agree, and then come the whispers.

They tell me of all the other battles in the world, of my selfishness in drawing attention to my meaningless plight.

Their words sink through my skin and turn my pain to numbness, but that doesn't stop the bleeding.

It continues to pour from me, but I hide it before anyone can see.

If they didn't see the blood before why would they see it now.

I see the jagged scars, they see them as faint scratches.