Tears in the cloth of the broken. Blood soaking into the floor. The blade struck inside. Worry is draining. People walk past. As more steel penetrates my flesh. Harmful words being shouted at my soul. I have no control. These people these things make me believe that I do not matter. The wounds can prove that nobody cares. The words being shouted means no one is coming to save me from my inevitable fate.
No, I'm not craving attention. No, I'm not following a trend. How can you say that these wounds do not exist? I am bleeding out in a crowd. Nobody can see my suffering. They walk all over me ignoring the blood they are trailing.
It's only when my lifeless body is hanging in front of them do they pay attention...
