Its not rhetorical I'm really asking! And speaking of asking How do I express the number Of times I wished someone would ask In middle school A bright, bubbly girl Morphed into a mumbling Timid creature in black clothes And sprawling lines Dirty hair and dirtier nails poetry and doodles Going up her arms And no one seemed Concerned about this change But I remember sitting At my dining room table My dad asking "What's on your arms"? I don't want to show him. He slammed his hand on the table And asked again Not so gently I began to cry But I wouldn't rub the tears off With my hands I wouldn't show them the scars I'd rather let it dry under the pillow And maybe I remember This vividly because My dad raised his voice And maybe because it felt like Someone cared enough to ask At that point I didn't care how I was asked My teacher sometimes asked What was on my arms But never asked If I was okay. I don't think anyone asked me that. But I met a man Who felt like I did He was troubled and broody And perhaps misunderstood But we wrote beautifully We spend a summer under an old tree He smelled less of skin and more of parchments We re read old poems Learning and growing in love Till he left..... I wasn't so lonely anymore Still meek and tender But a little lighter Having unleashed my demons Into a journal That my arms I don't really understand mental health I still walk in circles. The scars are still as raw as they were And I'm only beginning to recognize Something haunting me But no one should have to rely on the dead To find motivation To stay alive
Anagha
1st year
BA Political Science (H)
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