Scars

I was born with these scars,
No right to call them birth marks though.
They healed pretty well throughout the years,
Until I fell from my bicycle.
No one was apost to be there when I fall.
And no one was.
I feel to the ground,
As the concrete scrapped the skin off my flesh.
My wounds opened up again.
I laid there bleeding, thinking,
How could I have let this happened.
Those seconds felt like years before I got back on my feet.
And yet no one was still there,
Watching, or caring.
You were apost to be there!
Your job was to make sure I never opened those wounds again.
And now, I'm here alone....
Don't bleed anymore, please.