My mind tells me I deserve to bleed
That it’s okay that it hurts like hell
That it’s good that the blood won’t stop
Because the blood is mine
The blood is of the person who messed up in conversation
The blood is of the one who’s eyes are devastatingly like her father’s
Of the person who got to school 4 minutes late
And for the one who just sat there class while she knew that there was someone somewhere in pain
For the one who wasn’t there to help them

But my mind also asks me
If my blood is the same
as the three year old who’d play
with napkins and pens
Because creative and strange
Is far better
Than bored and average

My mind asks
If the skin that I tear open
Is the same skin
That the 7 year old’s tears poured down on
Because she was starting to understand
That her father’s behavior was not normal

And even though that ******* that is my head told me to my face
That I am unlovable
And that I deserve to bleed
It somehow had the nerve
To make me feel guilty for yet another thing

It told me I was hurting
the little girl who already
Was struggling

And it told me I was hurting
the grandma with grandkids on her lap
Of whom I’m threatening
Deprivation of snuggling

My mind said
That by doing that
I deserved to bleed and suffer even more

And as the pain starts
It asks me again
If it was just me that I’m hurting