I’m invisible…
can you see me?
Or am I just a glitch in your reality,
a shadow that learned how to breathe quietly?
I shrink when you look my way,
not because I’m small—
but because I’ve been taught
that being seen comes with a cost I can’t pay at all.
So I fold.
I bend.
I blur into the background hum,
a ghost rehearsing silence
until silence is all I become.
I walk through rooms like a rumor,
half-heard, half-true,
watching laughter bloom in places
that never made space for me… or you.
And yeah, it hurts.
Not loud. Not sharp.
But like a slow leak in the chest,
where every breath feels borrowed
and every heartbeat second-guessed.
I slither away—
not dramatic, not loud,
just a quiet retreat
from a world that never called me out.
Into corners that taste like dusk,
into darkness that knows my name,
where I don’t have to pretend
I’m not tired of this invisible game.
Because being unseen
isn’t peace…
it’s erasure with a pulse,
it’s screaming in lowercase,
it’s existence set to “null.”
I want to be loud.
I want to take up space.
I want someone to look at me
and not look away like I’m a mistake.
But instead, I dissolve—
again, again, again—
like ink in water,
like a story that never found its pen.
So tell me…
if I disappeared completely tonight,
would the air feel lighter?
Would the world feel right?
Or would there be a flicker—
just one—
where someone whispers,
“something’s gone…”
I’m invisible…
can you see me?
Or am I just a shadow
begging the dark
to finally keep me?