October 3, 2010

Sometimes I feel like I am invisible. Sometimes, I even want to be. People cut me out and then glue me back in again. I’m shifted from one scrapbook to another, one photo album into somebody’s elses. I’m not a real person, I’m a robot. One continuous cycle of migraines, stitching and sadness, linked together by momentary insommnia and forgetfullness. Shaking limbs and euphoria. Freezing cold hands and the dull ache of an echo of a migraine and a memory. Hatred and loathing mixed indifferently with fear and regret. I drift. I float. I dream. I dream of fairies and angels and family. I dream of nursery rhymes and literature, Russia and the Ukraine, Irish leprechauns and my childhood. I want to be a detective, to have a pipe and never have to emerge from a haze of smoke. I want to harness a water kelpie and let it drag me down to the cold, weedy green depths, down to a calm sweet sleep. I want to run away to the woods with a boy I love who dances like Peter Pan and never wants to grow up.

This is what I want.

But you don’t know, because I am invisible to you and your world.

It all makes sense to me.


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