Oh, to be seen.

To be understood, to be felt, to be known.
I would raise my palms to the sky and kneel on the coarse earth if it meant I could be known. Seen.

Once, you threw me to the ground.
Kicked me, and picked me up, and threw me again.
Well, I looked up at you, of course I did.
Absentmindedly reaching to wipe the blood away, off my cheek.
You looked down at me, how could you not?
And at once, I felt seen.

I remembered, then, many years ago.
In a house many thousands of miles away, my mother dropped a glass.
It broke, of course it did.
A shard bounced up, and sliced right across the back of her hand.
She still has the scar, did you know?

Do you think I am interesting?
Can I convince you to love me?
Sitting in our living room, I certainly wonder.
But I always remember that night. Kneeling.
Shuddering with every movement you made.
Bleeding, bleeding, bleeding.

I felt seen, then.
It was unavoidable.
I could not escape the way you looked at me. (I did not try).
As though I was something to break, like my mother's glass.
Did you scar? When I shattered? I'm unsure.

You enjoy it, when I treat you like that.
Supplication.
Begging to be seen like you once did.
Pleading that you will not turn me away again.

I don't know. I don't know if you see me or not.
I don't know if you know me.
I would like you to. I have said that already.
It would be nice, maybe.

Perhaps it would not be.
But the blood in my veins and
the marrow in my bones and
that (un)steady beat.

Oh, my heart.
It would like to be seen, just as I.

Please, do not deny me this.
Shatter the glass if you must, I do not care.
Shatter it. See me. Know me.

It may not be enough.