i remember being a kid and wishing something awful would happen to me. not because i wanted to die but because i wanted a reason to be held. i used to lie awake and think maybe if i got really sick, like hospital sick, something scary with a name, then they’d have to care. they’d look at me like i mattered. they’d touch my face gently. they’d stay.
sometimes i’d pretend to be sick. i’d wrap myself in blankets and fake coughs and say my stomach hurt, hoping someone would press a cool hand to my forehead and say poor thing, rest. hoping someone would miss me for a day. hoping someone would notice how tired i already was.
i used to think it was unfair when bad things happened to other kids and not to me. i know that sounds wrong but i’d watch people cry over them, gather around them, carry their pain like it was precious. and i’d think why not me. why doesn’t anyone worry about me. don’t they see i’m already hurting, even if there’s nothing on the outside.
i hated myself for it. for wanting the kind of pain people rush to fix. for dreaming about broken arms and hospital beds like they were lullabies. i was tired of crying with the door closed. tired of being good at disappearing.
i used to pray at night. not for joy or love or anything big. just for something to go wrong in a way people could see. just for a reason they’d finally look at me and realize i’d been hurting all along.
because sadness that hides in your chest gets ignored. because when you look fine they let you stay broken. but if your body’s in pieces, if your skin bruises the right way, if there’s a needle in your arm and a monitor beeping, suddenly it’s all real. suddenly you’re worth something. and god, i just wanted to be worth something.
