This city
was not built
for people like me—
I am the space
between the buildings,
a line
in the pavement
that no one stops to notice.
My memory is the sky—
storms tearing through
like the way we need
to index clouds.

I am
blurred lines—
a smudge
born of gridlock,
but going unnoticed
is a weapon.

No fingerprints
to leave behind—
just a ghost
hidden beneath my skin,
too blurred to see,
too drab to notice.

What does it mean
to walk the city
and leave no trace—
to peel open my eyelids
only to find nothing.

Sometimes, I wonder—
if invisibility is a disease,
born from a system so loud
it swallows everything.