“beautiful things don’t ask for attention”

but i am on my knees,

ripping my hair out shrieking,

“i am beautiful;

look at me–

feel the energy radiating from my chest

for my heart only beats for you.

examine.

i am a mess.

i am human.

love me;

is it so hard?”

bodily fluids trickles from my throat to my

ankles,

and i drown within the waves of my mortality.

trying too hard to be discovered,

i wade into my own catastrophic mind,

feeling the cold slap of the truth against my heels.

is it because of me?

just tell me this.

was it i–

who was so repulsive to your scrutinizing mind?

i should not know whether to take the knife out of my back

or to scrape it in further,

creating jagged lines of reddening remorse,

lest you answer.