Questions

Today another scar was added to my arm.
Its sad but I know the right amount of pressure to apply
To ensure the scar wont last long.
Because scars bring questions.
I hate questions.
There's a common question you might've heard before.
"Are you ok?"
Innocently unaware that the question makes me feel damaged,
Like I'm broken and need to be fixed.
I said I hate questions.
Its because they make me face the sad reality that I am not ok.
That I need help.
That I'm broken.
There's a scene that plays in my head when I think of myself.
A bird.
Its wings are beautiful.
Colorful.
Then the bird looks at the sky.
"How beautiful," it thinks.
As a bird, it has the instinct to fly.
Fully unaware that if it flys,
It might fall.
So it spreads its wings and throws itself into the air.
Only to start plummeting to the ground.
It had been so distracted by the beauty of the sky
That it had failed to notice that its wing was badly injured.
Flying was impossible for it.
In that split second of realization,
It realizes that if it had only payed attention it would not be falling To its death.
I hate questions.
They make me face the sad reality that I am that bird.

This poem is about: 
Me

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