The Pain There is pain. Feel the pain. See the pain. Heal the pain. I dissociate. I feel numb. I don't feel I am sane. When this happens I feel lost and I know that there is pain. It needs to be expressed—though I try to, it's in vain. It's there in my head and in my heart I feel the pain. I cut myself so that the blood will make a stain. It's right there on my arm. Can't you see the pain? There's no way I can stop it, because fighting's such a strain. Won't someone take care of me? For I can't heal the pain. I can grieve a little now for the child who felt alone. She wants someone to care for her even though she knows she's grown. A mother's book, husbands' disdain, and a father's yard, Friends who've gone, children unborn and sisters' disregard. It's why she cuts, it's why she bleeds, why she wishes that she died. No one paid attention to the child who always cried. These are things that made me feel unwanted, worthless, bad. What good am I; what good's the child if love cannot be had?