Understanding me

but they never did want to
understand me. as long as i am
pretty and as long as i am able
to speak a full sentence and as
long as i am able to make them
feel important behind, the
bedroom door then wJaat matters
of my thoughts
and what matters of my traumas
and what matters of my
incessant desire to put words
on a paper
and only hug with meaning and
then there are my obsessive
habits like locking the door
nine times and checking the
stove for forgotten heat. what
about tl-iat? it never did
matter, at least not truly. and
i may be fickle but the way
they see me has always been
fleeting and i often wonder if
anyone will ever notice the
things that live inside of iae*
the ones that dont change come
the sun drops and i wonder if
anyone
will ever really know rae
at all.