they don’t send ambulances for broken hearts, just broken bodies, when help doesn’t come we assume we must break our own bones, we must make the outside reflects how it feels within. Maybe then they’ll send help, maybe then they’ll listen, maybe then they’ll believe me when I say I hurt.  Why cant the evidence of my ache be the way I feel,  they don’t send ambulances for broken hearts, just broken bodies, when help doesn’t come we assume we must break our own bones, we must make the outside reflects how it feels within. Maybe then they’ll send help, maybe then they’ll listen, maybe then they’ll believe me when I say I hurt.  Why cant the evidence of my ache be the way I feel, why does blood have to spill to make my pain look real. I don’t think the world should wait for me to puncture my skin, to worry about the trouble within. I wish we treated broken hearts like broken bones and sent ambulances for bleeding souls.