You don’t know me.
You don’t even realize
that something’s wrong,
that I’m not the little girl
I used to be.
You don’t realize
that the bandaged “mosquito bites”
on my arms and legs
are self-harm scars
that I’m too ashamed
to let you see.
You don’t realize
how much it stings
to watch almost every person
I’ve ever cared about
leave.
You don’t realize
that I still feel guilty
every time I eat.
You don’t realize
just how much I smoke
and how much I drink.
You don’t even realize
that you don’t know me.