Real

My first real fall was when I scraped my knee.
My first real scar was from a needle piercing my skin, in the wrong spot.
My first real cry was when pointless things hurt me.
My first real experiences didn't feel so real, until now, when--

My first real fall was from being pushed too much by the crowd.
My first real scar was from the blades they all held, pointed to my heart.
My first real cry was, when I ran, my sobs being silent and my tears nothing but  hot and cold.
My real experiences only came after I let myself, and let everyone else, feed me lies.

I let them, and now, it seems so real.

This poem is about: 
Me

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