Girl in Wheelchair

Take a look at me.

Nobody needs any invitation to stare at me. I see the eyes all the time, different colours, shapes and sizes. I see the expression hiding behind them all, always the same. Not pity. Not loathing.

Confusion.

They stop and they stare at me, not blinking, eyes wide, faces dropped, mouths hanging open. They will not look away for anything. When they move on, they turn around as they go and catch slithers of looks when they I think I am oblivious.

It would be amazing if I was blind, but even then it wouldn't do much good. I could still feel the stares, almost burning into the back of my skull. Every stare works it's way into my veins, chilling and creeping. I know they're still there. The effect is still there even once they've gone.

There is no cure. I put my hand over my eyes, I look away, I pretend to be fasinated in my nails or shoe laces. I pretend, I imagine.

If I can't see them, they can't see me.

I hate myself when they're there. I feel the livid anger creep through me. I feel my eyes prickle with self pity, self hatred. I feel like myself again once I'm asleep, squeezing my fists against my eyes so I can't still see them.

I have heard all of it before-you're perfect the way you are. I've heard them say to just ignore them, I've heard them say they're creeps, I'm beautiful. It's easy for them to say that though.

They don't know what it's like.

Nobody knows what it's like.

Nobody knows what it's like to be trapped in a Hell-hole everyday of my life.

Take A Look At Me