A bag of scars

They give me pills if the pain gets too bad,
but they don't give me pills if I'm feeling sad.
I cry and beg and hope and plead,
but all anyone cares about is if I bleed.
A new scar to endure,
something else to make me feel insecure.
I want so desperately to be okay,
but my mind paints everything grey.
I try to smile but I begin to cry,
I wonder again why I cannot fly.
I'd fly far away,
I won't stop until next May.
I fear that one day I will no longer cope,
I fear that I will run out of hope.
I feel as though there's nobody to care,
but that's the problem living with a condition so rare.