Unseen, Unheard

Somedays, everyone stares at me. Once I counted seven double takes in one day.

Other days, nobody can hear me. Or maybe they just don’t listen. I fear it’s the latter.

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I’ll point something out, like, “Hey, look at that pretty tree!!” – then, minutes later, somebody will say, “Have you seen that pretty tree?”

That’s when I have to try very, very hard to not start bawling.

It might seem like a huge overreaction, but it happens about fifteen times per day.

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People stare straight through me. There’s nothing more frightening than looking into someone’s eyes, knowing that they’re not seeing you.

And I don’t have the confidence to say something six times, just to be heard.

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Instead, I walk out.

Nobody cares – or perhaps they would, if they actually noticed.

I used to be likeable. I did have that.

Now, I’m invisible.

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And I am nothing.