A Barcode
I didn't notice that the lines had appeared.
Tendrils of color stretching across my pale skin.
The blacked lines from a tight grip,
Handprints made a map of the lines I crossed.
I started to think they appeared because I didn't hold my tounge, or maybe because I didn't speak up enough.
Because I'd done the wrong thing, or I hadn't done something at all.
I looked at the black and blue handprints spread across my white skin,
And in the lines I started to see a barcode. A price tag.
As if this hurt determines the price of my faults, or what I am worth to the world.
It took a long time to understand that I was only seeing what I was worth to me.
I didn't notice that I was becoming more aware.
And you didn't notice I'd had enough.
My asking to be treated well came as a shock to you,
And I'm only shocked it took me so long.
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