Imagine pupils tracing flesh, noticing. Just, noticing. The way your mouth curls when you smile. The simple sway of your hips. imagine being watched. Noticed.
Imagine being invisible. It happens with time. Happens. Imagine not being seen. Traced. Noticed. Imagined. You wonder.
Remember being traced. Eyes noticing. And you think all that’s left to notice you is the stars and trees in silhouette against the night. You wonder. What it’s like to feel slightly less invisible. You wonder and imagine and your mind plays tricks on you and drives you towards the deep end. There where everything erupts inside out. So you don’t go there. You don’t go where you might be seen. Noticed.
I remember as a child my parents taught me my worth was in my beauty and my lack of worth was in my lack there of. I made funny faces and never believed I could be beautiful. And if I couldn’t be beautiful, nothing I could be mattered at all. And I’ve spent my life longing to be noticed. Traced. Seen. The light that follows the curves of my body, that funnels into the darkness between my lips. Perhaps that’s what we all want. To be called beautiful. Not even with words. But a look. From someone who notices everything but still happens to take the time to notice you. And you wonder. As you age. Are you permanently invisible? Maybe you are. Maybe it’s better that way.
life with interest 