the gravestone of Erin.

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.