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  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.