She doesn’t know

I told her how I felt and she made me feel useless.

More useless than a candy wrapper or a broken toy.

She doesn’t know why I hate my birthdays.

She doesn’t know why I sit awake at night.

She doesn’t know why I hate boys.

She doesn’t know what each scar represents.

She doesn’t know how many of them are from her.

She doesn’t know how much I hate myself.

She doesn’t know why I want to die.

She doesn’t know..