I’m invisible,can you see me

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?