Needles

A little poem to try get my feelings out :)

Needles.
I try to push them down, but they poke my hand.
Digging into my flesh, one after the other.
This excruciating pain, controlling my whole body.
So I push them down, even if my hand ends up wounded.
But you are blaming me for the blood dripping on your carpet?
For it being difficult to wash out?
A memory of my suffering that just won't get off.
Can you not handle my screams of me when the needles pierce different parts of me at once?
For it was you, who placed them into me in the first place.
I try to detach them one after the other, so my blood won't rub off on the people around me.
So why is it, that each time there's less of those goddamn needles, you're placing more into my body?
I try to dig into my skin, hoping I can rip them out, but all that's left is a deep empty bloody space.
A reminder of this immense pain, for the damage I do to myself will always be less than the damage you're so often doing to me.
How dare you call me selfish for wanting to bandage my wounds before trying to treat your little scratch made yourself?
Maybe I first need to treat the source of the needles, instead of panically trying to heal the wounds that result from them.