truth

i am going to try my best not to be cryptic.

invisibility: i have fought myself so hard, fought myself for something. i fight to keep from disappearing entirely, which is threatening to occur at the most rapid of paces.
this is how i feel, and it is honest, and it is real- place no judgements upon it, upon what i will say; do not administer your opinions upon my words and my most wretched sorry thoughts, your plastic stickers of bad or good, real or lies. this is how i feel and have felt and you cannot argue it away from me.

i feel: i could look you in the face and claw at your hands, your clothes, and scream and scream until my voice breaks but you, anybody, would never hear me. i am treading water right below you and you do not see me. i feel i have done these things and i have still, always, hopelessly, been Invisible.

i am that person who will never forget anybody but i am also the person most easily forgotten.
when i see you in your pain, with your sorrow and hurts, i destroy myself for them, for you. because i love you and i want you to be free from them, for ever.
maybe this is the plight of the Invisible: i am here to shoulder your pain, those things you cannot bear, and i will do it all so happily, and i will die beneath them, as long as you have hope for yourself. because you, you deserve it; i love you and have always loved you.

read this and condemn me, hate me, spew your loathing and contempt at me. i don't care anymore, i can't do anything on my own behalf. i give up. i am here for that express and clear purpose: to absorb all of those things away from you, because i deserve them, and you don't.

a short short story

i don't know how well i will be able to accomodate sleep tonight because in the next room through the cracked open walls i hear my brother yelling at his friend, they are both very loud and very tall. my brother has been sleeping on the floor in the room beside mine for the past month because he doesn't have a room and hasn't had one since april, when my uncle moved in.

sobriety

my miracle day involves a gourmet kitchen in a small, clean house with well-arranged light in all of its spaces, no irregular shadows cramped up in the corners, no strange darknesses to jump out at me. the kitchen, filled with every sleek appliance, a smooth finish to all of its surfaces; a pantry stocked with spices and herbs and every obscure cooking object and every conceivable utensil all at my disposal. my miracle day slides itself into a miracle life, where pockets of happiness are like real butter spread thickly on perfect bread, eyesight filled with warmth instead of the blurred strain of nonmiracles. my miracle life involves being the open flower of the burgeouning love i am cultivating here, quiet and vulnerable but very true, honest. the fact that i could smear out my love like oil pastels, carefully blended colors spread on white compliant paper.

i feel strangely separate now, wholly removed from familiarity, which is okay; all of this is a new familiarity, a replacement safety from what i had before. it feels more real, almost. slowly, i am feeling less dissasociated, more reciprocated. i feel as if maybe i might believe that they love me back- first time ever. things are so fervently exposed, it's like we have no fear of each other, nothing to inhibit us from giving each other everything of which we have desperate need. it is surreal for me, a surreality, and a precarious one, an instability of my own creation, the unwillingness to accept that anything good might, for once, stay safe.