I can turn invisible.
I do it all the time.
You may not even notice that I’ve changed- just that one minute I'm here and then suddenly I'm gone.

It has a price.

I can turn invisible and the world gets vastly larger.
I shrink inside myself until all that’s left are atoms smaller than you can see.
Impalpable.
Insensible.
Compacted super-dense matter.
Dark and malnourished, I cannibalize .
I eat the pieces of me that are brightest and leaden with memory each time becoming smaller but denser;
heavier with the weight of myself but faded.
Stunted.
Fragile.
Small.

I can turn invisible and you wouldn't even notice
because I've been here all this time just lingering and shrinking.

The world keeps getting larger and I keep getting smaller.

It’s a feeling like butterflies.
It’s a feeling like mourning.
It’s a feeling like no other I can describe to you coming from one such as I.
Invisible.

The world gets larger.
I still get smaller.

My tears are hot and tiny. Puny things full of anger and loathing and loneliness.
I consume them.
They make me smaller.
Super-dense matter burning within these half digested bits. It's a feeling like no other.
I've reached the apex.
I've reached the abyss.

I can turn invisible.
I've been doing it all this time
and the world has gotten too big for me and I am too heavy with the world for it.
Compacted.
Super-dense.
It feels like butterflies and mourning and the pieces of me that burn.
It's hot inside my shrunken belly,
too small for you to see,
all the while I grow too fat on my tears and too full on this emptiness.

I may explode with this smallness;
this denseness;
and all that you couldn’t see will come spewing from me and the world will stop getting bigger
and I will birth a new me.

I'm a Super Nova.
I was invisible
but the weight was too great.
Compacted super-dense matter.

You couldn’t even see me.

But now you can.

Loving you is a self inflicted wound.
I begin to heal, scab over and itch
but I like the way (loving you) feels,
so I scratch the wound open again.

Loving you is a silent deed
done alone in whispers I dare not speak.
Done in darkness and in guilt.
Never knowing if the simple act of feeling
makes me more human
or less.

Loving you is a deep rooted poison,
an unforgivable sin,
a sickly sweet ichor that has seeped into my bones.
It wakes me in the night while deep in dream
making me live things that never were
and that will never come to be.

Loving you is a forest fire
and all I've made,
all I have,
is resting right next to the blaze.
All I can do is watch
and pray that loving you
won't burn everything else to the ground.

Loving you is full of loathing,
full of shame.
It is done in hidden, dark places of my soul.
I can take you out and play
with the idea you put inside my heart,
secretly.
It's a self inflicted wound, you see.
And when I'm finally healing,
scabbing over my thoughts of you,
thoughts you put there unknowingly,
unwittingly,
accidentally,
I scratch.
because I still like the way (loving you) feels.

You bought a dress shirt,
Button-up and black.
I could see your mood in your eyes
like the shirt in my hand
dark and neatly pressed.
Buttons in a perfect row of black on black.
I undid them hurriedly
so I could get the **** hanger off
and put your purchase in the bag,
then flushed and looked away
hoping you wouldn't notice,
suddenly struck by how intimite a gesture
undoing a button could be.