time unspools like thread from a spindle,
winding itself into shapes i cannot wear.
i drift between the curtains, weightless,
a shadow sewn to the edge of the stage,
waiting for someone to simply notice.

I often look across my skin
for a cut or bruise,
a scratch paper thin,
just for a glimpse,
of the pain within.

Everyone's scars seem laid bare,
others helping them with care,
the pain I feel
seems all but real,
cause no one reaches,
no one tries,
to see the hurt
behind my eyes.