Pricked

FOUR

You're like a paper cut
you make me bleed.
At first it was hardly there.
I didn't even notice it.

And then I realised
I was pricking myself
on paper.

I have bruises
I don't remember getting.

You hurt me
slowly
it's like water dripping down
a leaking tap. 

It hardly makes a sound
and you forget about it.
And when you do notice
you feel like you'll drown.

I didn't notice
the blood at first.

It was only when; after
hundreds of cuts
the blood stained my white shirt;
I noticed my red finger,
my now red hand. 

And I remembered 
all those times 
you hurt me;
unnoticed. 

And it pains now. 

~Anjee, Nov 2013

This is the fourth poem in my series of melancholy poems Mid Carnival of Woe.