no one’s eyes made me write—
my life did.
the things I’ve endured,
the family I never had,
the trauma I carry
turned me into a poet.

it forced the ink
out of my veins—
red, yet black,
like the blood
still coursing
through me.

I bleed onto paper
without a knife,
just wounds that never heal,
just pain that never
learns to stop.

it drains me dry—
and yet I stand,
barely.

begging to be taken,
begging to vanish,
to disappear
from a world
I was never meant
to be born in.