Unrecognizable

"This isn't you." Something I would often be told. "I don't recognize you anymore." The words feel almost, cold. –Maybe this is me. The crack in the flawless portrait, the decay on the blossoming rose, the dirt in the pure white snow, the stain on the floor. Why not recognize me, when I'm only showing you myself? Why kick me on the open wound, which still hasn't closed? I often feel like a child, living in a sadistic world. Where pain is amusing, and words have no value.