FF: Shy

Don’t look at me; I’m not here.

I’m blending into this wall so successfully that I’ve forgotten how to breathe. The stickled, grade school carpet bites prison bars into my knees, and steadily I become that too. Become trapped behind my own need to be obsolete.

Don’t look at me; I’m not here.

I can’t take your judgement today, nor yesterday or tomorrow either. I’ve passed by conversations graduating from Barbie dolls to boys, and now I don’t know what the topic is anyway. Besides, you’ll laugh even if I guess it right. You’ll laugh because it’s me.

Don’t look at me; I’m not here.

When you don’t speak, it’s easy for people to forget you. It’s easy for them to hate you too. Silence is its own disease and I suffer from it terminally. Somewhere I must have skipped the lessons on how to fit in: Key Stage 0.1 of life. But all I’ve ever tried to do is be liked.

Don’t look at me; I’m not here.

I’m not a mind, not really a person, or so you think. There is nothing in my soul but space. I am to be discounted, ignored, debased; a curiosity show – and not even half so curious as that – to which human emotion is never ascribed. I am to be shy. And though this is exactly how my obsolescence wants it, a part of me still wants to scream: please –

Please, look at me, because I’m just as alive as anybody else. And I need you to know that.


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