I feel invisible.
I feel like a ghost.
Except, scratch that,
people see ghosts all the time.
I'm more like a figment
of the imagination,
the soul knows I'm there,
but I'm easily confused with
things outside of real life.
I'm never heard,
never seen.
My words are read,
but at what cost?
you can take the idea
of the woman behind
the words and pretend
they belong to another.
I'm never connected.
As soon as my words hit
the page and are gifted
to the world,
they no longer belong to me.
They're out there for people to use.
To reference,
to talk about,
to feel as their own.
My words used to be a looking
glass into my mind,
but now it's like the headstone
people read when they want
to remember me,
not realizing I'm still there.
I'm just invisible to most eyes.
Silent to most ears.
But my words carry out
my silent cries and
take the form of life
I so long to have myself.
Until the headstone parishes,
I'll be standing in the background,
watching as people put flowers on my grave.
The grave they built when
they threw the cover over me
like I don't even exist.
