My pain was never enough for you. It was disembodied. It paled against the anguish you saw daily in the eyes of the children of strangers. Their suffering was real, mine was non-existent to you. What did I have to do to show you? How could I be damaged enough for you? I am broken now, mummy. Can you fix me like you fix them? Can I ever mean so much to you? Now that I slice open my own skin. Is that enough pain for you? Do you want to help me now? There is always someone worse off, someone more deserving of your care. Why do you love their suffering, grounded in trauma, and ignore mine, floating in a barren wasteland? I am broken, mummy. You broke me, mummy. But I am still not damaged enough for you. Not like the little ones you save and protect. Does their hurt make them special? Do I have to be abused to be loved by you? Look at my pain, mummy. It drips from my arms in crimson rivers, but it is meaningless to you. Why don't I matter? Why won't you love me? How can you take away a pain that's not tangible, not manifested by an overt act of violence, an assault on my innocence? I am broken, I am damaged, I am lost. I am not enough. How can I be perfect in my pain?