i do not walk
i float,
half a whisper behind the world.
people speak in whole voices
but mine is paper thin
its faded away

mirrors don’t lie,
they truth
that i am too much of something
and not enough of anything.

i learned early
to shrink myself
tighten the laughter,
bite the words,
become the apology
before anyone asks for it.

i wear invisibility like cologne,
subtle,
elusive,
always there.
it smells like
"you’re not good enough"
and
"why would they care?"

some days i’m a ghost
calling my own name,
pressing against the glass of who i should be,
watching him live
without me.